To Her Door
by thimbles
Summary: She said, "I'm not standing by, to watch you slowly die / So watch me walking, out the door." A story based on the Paul Kelly song and told in three parts. For the lovely MagTwi 78.
1. Chapter 1

**To Her Door.**

* * *

><p><em>This one's for MagTwi78. She's one of the sweetest, kindest gals around. Happy Birthday, mate. Thank you for your friendship and for the sunshine you bring to so many people's lives.<em>

_Hadley Hemingway stepped in to work her beta-magic on this, even though I left it to the last minute. Thank you, my dear._

* * *

><p><strong>Part One.<strong>

_She said, "I'm not standing by, to watch you slowly die / So watch me walking, out the door."_

* * *

><p>He comes home late.<p>

Again.

Bella tells the girls to eat their tea, watching the gravy congeal on her own plate. It's been sweltering in their little house since the sun broke free of the copse of eucalyptus trees that shade the house in the mornings. Sticking a leg of lamb in the oven this afternoon only made it worse. Sweat trickles down Bella's spine and gathers behind her knees. Hair curls at her temples, the way it always does when the humidity gets this high.

Edward always thought it was cute, the way those curls sprang to life with the threat of rain. He'd call her his pretty little barometer and he'd grin as he tapped her nose. He always had to tap the barometer that hung in his dad's kitchen to check it wasn't jammed.

Bella pushes the hair away from her face. There'll be a storm tonight.

"You no 'ungry, Mummy?"

Bella forces a smile for her daughters. "I'll eat mine when Daddy comes home. Alice, you need to eat your broccoli, too, okay? Not just the meat."

Alice scrunches up her nose but doesn't argue. Bella gives her two-year-old a thumbs up as she shovels a forkful of the vegetable into her little mouth.

"Where _is_ Daddy?" Rosie looks at the clock on the dining room wall. She can't read it, not really. She just knows her Daddy's supposed to be home when the big hand points up and the little hand points down.

"Not time yet," she decides. She doesn't understand "clockwise," doesn't realise the hands have gone right past six o'clock and on towards seven.

"You keep eating, Rosie." The vinyl tablecloth tries to hang onto the water glass and it makes a sticky-sounding noise as Bella lifts it to her mouth.

He hasn't been home on time for nearly two weeks. Not since they heard there'd be cutbacks at the mill. He reckons it'll help, getting on his supervisor's good side. So he spends his evenings in the pub, buying rounds they can't afford, trying to secure his job. While Bella prods the girls through their dinner, bath, and bed routine, then takes her seat at their crappy little dining table, feeling every bit the dutiful housewife waiting for her husband to come home. She wonders if she should start wearing a ruffle-trimmed apron, because it certainly feels like she's slipped back into the bad old days of the 1950's.

"I'm finished," Rosie declares.

Alice drops her fork onto the melamine plate. "I finis too."

The girls whinge a bit as their mum chivvies them into eating a few more pieces of broccoli and a couple of bites of baked potato. Bella doesn't know if she actually cares about them eating their veggies, or whether she's just trying to prolong the time they're all at the table, hoping Edward will come home before she concedes defeat and declares it bathtime.

He doesn't come, though, and the evening drags on as usual. Bella sits by the bath as the girls paste their faces and hair with bubbles, reminding them to wash under their arms and behind their ears. She dries them and helps them into their pyjamas, then works a comb through their hair. She tackles Alice's dark curls first, then Rosie's blonde wisps.

In the girls' bedroom, Bella tucks them under the sheets—it's too hot for anything warmer—and sits on the worn carpet between their beds. She reads _Koala Lou_ and _The Ballad of Skip and Nell_ and every other book on their shelf until the girls' eyelids are heavy and her voice is hoarse.

When she can't read any longer, Bella kisses her daughters' soft cheeks and strokes their hair as she tell them she loves them. She turns off the lamp and stays there on the floor, letting the tears fall silently as the girls yawn and wriggle and eventually fall asleep.

Bella closes their door and prays he won't be too loud when he comes in.

She walks to the back door of their little fibro two bedroom and stands there, looking out over the yard. The lights from inside pool on the grass, which is scattered with the girls' toys and in desperate need of a mow. The Hills Hoist is laden with the three loads of laundry Bella did this morning. She knows she should bring the clothes in before the rain starts, but right now she just doesn't have the energy.

There's no breeze, not a whisper. In the distance, lightning jags across across the sky. Bella counts: one, two, three, four, five, six… until she hears the rumble of thunder. She can't remember exactly what the time lag is supposed to mean. Is it five hundred metres for every second? She's not sure. Whatever it means, the storm's still a ways away. The thunder sounds almost gentle, like it's just someone a few streets over moving their furniture around.

That's what her grandma used to say when she quaked at the sound, isn't it? "It's just God moving his furniture around, Bella. Don't fuss."

Thoughts of Gran have Bella looking over her shoulder, searching out her picture in the cluster of frames on top of the television cabinet. There she is, smiling out over the room. It makes Bella's heart ache—she misses her grandmother so much.

Bella's gaze moves on, wandering over the family snaps, the baby photos, Rosie's preschool picture, until it lands on her wedding photo.

_Is that really me? _she wonders. She hardly recognises herself.

She's older now, of course—but not by much. And there's the extra five kilos she has left over from two pregnancies. But it's the hopefulness in her younger self's smile she can't connect with. She can't remember what that feels like, to have the whole world at her feet and her future at her fingertips.

Her focus shifts to Edward's face. That smile, those eyes. She can't see their colour from here, but her brain fills in what the eye can't. His green eyes. The colour of fallen gum leaves, when they've gone all dry and crackly under the summer sun. It's that stage when you can crumble them in your fingertips and the smell of eucalyptus will stay on your hands all day.

Closing her eyes, Bella wipes away the moisture gathered on her cheeks. _We had no idea, back then._ They were full of hope and youthful arrogance. So what that they were only nineteen? They had this big, huge, all-consuming love and they knew it could get them through anything.

And what did it matter that they'd been married only three months when Bella fell pregnant? There'd be time to finish her nursing degree later on.

It's only been four and half years since that photograph was taken. So much has changed since then.

Two kids, no uni degree, and she's no longer certain that love is enough.

* * *

><p>The rains starts about eight o'clock, drumming impatient fingers on the roof and windows. Bella closes the back door and turns on the television. She flicks through the channels but nothing catches her attention so she switches it off again. She curls up on the couch, staring at the window. She watches the rain droplets throw themselves against the glass.<p>

A little after eight-thirty, she hears Edward come through the front gate. He's singing, some old Paul Kelly tune his dad was fond of. He's got a nice singing voice—just not when he's had a skinful. He's offkey and too loud, and she rushes to the door to shush him before he can wake the girls.

"Hey, baby." He grins down at her, his eyes bleary with drink. His clothes are saturated; water drips from his hair and slides down his face.

For the hundredth time, Bella thanks God that he's not a mean drunk. He's loud and lazy and he gets kind of handsy, but he's not aggressive—never has been.

"Come on, you." She speaks softly, hoping he'll get the hint to do the same. She helps him take off his shirt and hangs it over the back of a chair.

He kicks off his boots and slumps into a chair at the table while she grabs him a towel. His head's sort of floppy on his neck—he's probably had at least half a dozen schooners. Bella doesn't let herself work out how much that would've cost him.

"You hungry?" Bella opens the oven to retrieve the lamb roast she's been keeping warm for him.

"Not for food." He pinches her bum as she sets his plate in front of him.

There was a time Bella would've found his drunken antics cute. When that smile he's wearing would have her stripping them both from their clothes and letting him screw her on the kitchen table.

But after weeks of this, of him coming home late during the week, then drinking himself into oblivion in front of the television all weekend, she's had enough.

"Don't touch me," she tells him, swatting his hand away.

He pulls his keys and wallet from the pocket of his sodden shorts and tosses them onto the table, and Bella wonders where he left his ute tonight. Did he drive to the pub or is it still parked out the front of the mill? He's not dumb enough to get behind the wheel like this—another thing to be thankful for. But it's hard to feel any real gratitude right now, when she knows she's going to have to wake the girls up early and bundle them into the car while they complain in their sleepy voices, so she can drive him to work tomorrow morning.

Bella sits down with Edward while he eats, trying to not to cringe at every clang of cutlery against china. Her own dinner is in the bin, untouched; her appetite is non-existent.

His plate is half-cleared when Edward stops eating, dropping his cutlery onto the table. Gravy and specks of broccoli splatter across the table cloth.

Bella starts to get up, intending to grab a cloth from the sink, when Edward's hand closes around her wrist.

She looks at her hand in his. It's shaking. No, it's him. Edward is shaking.

"I'm sorry, Bella." And he's crying.

Bella's only seen her husband cry once before. He was dry-eyed at their wedding, and the first time he held each of his daughters—even at his grandmother's funeral. But when they buried Mick Newton two years ago, she saw a few tears slip down his cheeks before he swiped them away. She remembers thinking it was a testament to how unbearably tragic it was: Mick took his own life a few days shy of his 21st birthday.

Edward lets go of her wrist, drops his head into his hands. His shoulders quake with his silent sobs.

She closes her eyes. Anticipates what he's about to say.

"I–I got laid off." He sounds so broken. "I'm so sorry, baby."

All the words are there, lined up in Bella's mind: _We'll manage. I can get some work. Something else will come up. We'll get through this._

But she doesn't say anything. Because right now, she doesn't believe a word of it.

* * *

><p>For two months, Edward keeps up the pretence of looking for work. And it is a pretence, because who's going to hire him in this town? When there's now thirty other blokes out looking for work, too?<p>

But he goes down to Centrelink and applies for jobs he won't get, won't even be considered for, and others that he wouldn't take if he was.

He's worked at the timber mill since he left school at sixteen. His dad works there, and so did his grandfather. Bella's dad did, too, until he had his accident. That's life in this town. Has been for over a century. The boys work in the mill. The girls marry boys who work in the mill, and have fat little babies who will grow up to work in the mill.

Except the mill is losing money hand over fist. A hundred blokes laid off last year. Then Edward was one of thirty more they had to let go. And they say it's not looking good. This time next year, there might not even be a mill. God knows what will become of this town then. There's nothing here, no reason to stay, if there's no longer a mill.

Edward logs off the computer, his fortnightly quota of job applications met. He doesn't even check his watch or wonder if his wife is expecting him home as he steps out of the air-conditioned Centrelink branch. Numb to the hot westerly blowing down the main street of town, he heads straight for the pub, pulls up his usual chair. Harry Clearwater grabs a schooner glass and puts it under the tap.

Harry's pretty much the only one making any money in this town, and he knows it's at the hands of other men's struggles. He knows that the men sitting at his bar, their eyes downcast and their faces lined with worry, are spending the money, mostly from government pensions and unemployment benefits, that their wives need to keep their children's bellies full. He keeps telling himself he's not these men's nanny, but it doesn't quite ease his guilt.

He reminds himself of the fact he's not exploiting the fellas as much as he could be. He did get rid of the pokies when the first round of cutbacks happened at the mill. He couldn't bear to watch the men feed the dregs of their paychecks into those flashing, noisy throats cawing their empty promises, couldn't handle another crying wife come in to drag her husband away from the clutches of the devil's machines. So he's done something, right? How can he do more? He's got four kids of his own to look after—he can't very well shut the place down.

Edward nods as Harry slides a schooner of New into his line of vision. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and tosses it on the beer-stained carpet runner that lines the bar. "Keep 'em comin'," he tells the barman.

Harry takes the money and tucks it into the till, promising himself that's all the money he'll accept from Edward Cullen tonight. He'll serve him his money's worth, then one more on the house, then he'll tell the younger man to get on home to his missus and his little girls.

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><p>At first, Edward does try to make an effort to make himself useful, now that he's at home so much. He fixes the leaking tap in the laundry. Changes the lightbulbs Bella can't reach. Cleans out the gutters and mows the lawns. He sprays WD-40 on anything that makes the slightest squeak.<p>

He even scrounges up as much scrap timber as he can and cobbles together a cubby house for Alice and Rose. Their smiles and astonishment—"Mummy, look it! Daddy maked a house!"—make him feel about ten feet tall.

But aside from keeping the lawn tidy, he quickly runs out of things to keep him busy. Bella gets exasperated at having him under foot all the time. He tries to help her with the laundry, but after he turns all the whites pink for the second time, she tells him to bugger off.

So he takes to sitting in front of the television, a tinny in hand. He watches _Neighbours_ re-runs and _Dr. Phil_ and fucking _Ready, Steady, Cook_. He usually lasts until about four o'clock in the arvo before he can't handle it anymore. Then he gets on his old pushy and heads down the pub. "Just for one coldy," he tells Bella.

She knows one means four. Or six. Maybe eight.

"Dinner's at six," she reminds him. Every day, he promises to be home before then.

Sometimes he is. More often he's not.

Alice and Rose start to refuse to eat their greens. And oranges, reds, yellows, and whites. The dinner table becomes a battlefield. It usually ends in tears. Alice's, Rose's. More often than not, Bella's, too.

After she finally gets the girls to sleep, Bella sits at the table with her ancient laptop whirring away and wonders how much longer they can keep going like this. Edward's Newstart payment barely covers the rent, even with Rent Assistance. The Family Tax Benefits that go into her account just cover the grocery bills. She thanks God she never bothered going to the bank to get Edward put on that account. Without that small amount of money he can't piss away every fortnight, they'd be buggered.

She sighs, logs off the computer, and wonders what it will take for things to change.

* * *

><p>Edward starts coming home even later. Bella stops waiting up.<p>

He comes crawling into their bed, stinking of stale beer and sweat and secondhand smoke and half the time he's too drunk to even try to start anything with her before he passes out.

When he does touch her, pawing at her breasts, trying to slide his drink-clumsy hands into her underwear, Bella pushes him away and tells him she has a headache, she's not in the mood, she's too tired. Sometimes she pretends to be asleep. Sometimes she whispers insults into the dark and tells him to go sleep on the fucking couch.

But sometimes, she misses him so much that she'll endure his beer breath and his sloppy kisses and his fumbling fingers. She strips off her clothes and he grunts and jerks over her and usually finishes before she's even getting started. She tells herself she doesn't care. She doesn't need an orgasm, she just needs him.

Those nights she falls asleep with his arms wrapped around her and his snores sawing through her chest and she tells herself things will get better.

They have to.

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><p>It's a Tuesday morning when Bella hears the squeaky exhale of brakes and the metallic clanging of the garbage truck moving up the street. She wonders if Edward remembered to put the bins out. She reminded him twice yesterday, but the doubt whispering in her ear has her slipping on a pair of tracksuit pants and tiptoeing out of their bedroom.<p>

The living room stinks, more than just the beer-smoke-sweat stench she's started to associate with Edward. She smells vomit, too. Hand over her mouth, trying not to gag, she tiptoes past the snoring mass on the couch and slips out the front door.

It's barely light out. The sky is lavender pale, the trees dark grey silhouettes. Already a warm breeze is raking across the earth from the west. There's a faint hint of smoke coming with it—there must be a bushfire somewhere nearby.

Edward hasn't put the bins out. Bella quickly looks around the street to check which ones need to be out this fortnight. The street is lined with bins with red and yellow lids. Red is for the normal garbage collection; yellow is for the recyclables. She walks down the side of the house, swearing under her breath as rocks and gumnuts dig into the soles of her feet.

Grabbing hold of the recycling bin, she gives it a heave. It comes reluctantly, its wheels catching in every crack and hole as if in protest at being moved.

She shoves it into place at the curb just as the truck gets to the house next door.

Bella can't explain why, but some instinct has her lifting the lid of the bin. Her heart sinks.

The bin is full to the brim with crushed VB cans. _Shame we don't live in South Australia_, she thinks, but there's no humour behind the thought.

How many cases has he bought this fortnight? How did he pay for them?

Bella leaves her heart out on the street to be carried away with the garbage.

She brings the red bin up, then heads back inside, hand over her stomach, feeling suddenly queasy. Did he pay the rent? The electricity bill? Is she going to bring the kids home from the park one day in the not-so-distant future to find they've been locked out of their home?

She opens up her laptop and waits for it to slowly come to life.

By the time Alice comes stumbling out of her bedroom at half past six, Bella has her tears under control. She smiles as the little girl crawls onto her lap, her auburn curls mashed against her head and her soft cheek creased with the imprint of her pillow. "Dada sick?"

Bella looks down into brown eyes. Alice's eyes are the same colour as her mother's, but the almost-almond shape is a gift from her father's genes.

"Yeah, baby," Bella says. "Daddy's sick."

Bella might have given up a lot to care for her family—her uni degree, her income, her spontaneity—but she's no pushover. She's putting a stop to this, now.

She takes the girls out into the backyard to eat their breakfast, and they play the "who can be the quietest?" game as she gets them dressed and does their hair. She takes them over to Angela's house, telling her cousin, "I'll be back in two hours."

When she pulls back into the driveway, she sits in the car with her head in her hands, praying to a God she's no longer sure is listening.

* * *

><p>"Edward." She slams the front door behind her and throws her keys onto the table. "Get up."<p>

She stomps over to the couch and gives him a shake. The smell lingering around his sleeping form is putrid; it almost makes her gag.

He mumbles and groans and it's only when she starts yelling, threatening to tip a bucket of water over his bloody head if he doesn't get his arse into the shower that he finally staggers to his feet.

She watches him stumble towards the bathroom, swaying like a sailor who's been at sea for a year and has forgotten how to walk on the firmness of dry land. His shirt is stained with vomit, and the hems of his jeans are crusted with she doesn't want to know what.

While she waits for him, she cleans the kitchen, washing the plates and cups from the girls' breakfast and wiping down the counters. She throws a load of washing in the machine but doesn't start it—there's not enough water pressure with the shower running, too.

A cloud of steam follows Edward out of the bathroom twenty minutes later. He's shaved and run a comb through his hair. Towel wrapped around his waist, he slumps into the chair opposite her. Bella pushes a mug of black coffee in front of him, and he rasps out a thanks.

She gives him a few minutes to sip the hot coffee before she speaks.

"The credit card is almost maxed out."

He stares into his mug. "I–" He shakes his head. "I– Did I do that?"

"Well, I sure as fuck didn't." Bella squeezes her hands into fists. "Pretty lucky I checked, don't you think? Before I went to buy Alice's birthday presents. It would've been pretty bloody humiliating if I'd gone into the city and had it rejected there."

"I'm s–so sorry, babe." Edward seems to crumple, to fold in on himself, and it makes Bella angrier. She wants to shout and rage. She wants him to fight her, defend himself. But he just sits there, head bowed, his hands dangling uselessly between his knees, and he's just… He's so _pathetic_ that the fight goes out of her.

"I'll have to get a job," she says. "There's almost five grand owing on the credit card. I can't see another way."

"Baby," he says. His voice is as weak as he looks with his bloodshot eyes and the greyish tinge to his skin. "I'll keep looking. I'll find something."

"We might have to move." Bella watches him closely. "If neither of us can find anything, we'll just have to. Maybe there's more work going in the city."

"No." Edward's palm lands on the table with a slap, and Bella is almost relieved to see this evidence that there's still some fight in him. "We can't… We can't move. This is home."

"It's not home." Bella speaks quietly. "Home is where the four of us are together. And if you keep drinking like this, we… The girls can't grow up with you pissing your life away in front of them, Edward."

He tells her over and over that he's sorry. He makes promises. He'll quit drinking. He'll keep looking for work. He'll pull himself together.

* * *

><p>For a few weeks, it looks to Bella like he's keeping those promises. He's there at the dinner table every night. He's poring through the newspaper every morning. He reads the girls their bedtime stories and he cooks dinner a few nights a week. And even though he only knows how to use the barbeque and Bella quickly tires of sausages and steak, she figures it's worth it. She'll eat red meat every night for the next decade if it means Edward is around, sober and functioning, taking care of his family.<p>

* * *

><p>It's a dreary Friday afternoon when she takes the girls over to Angela's. Bella's called in a favour. The girls will be sleeping over there because she's got plans to show Edward just how much she appreciates him stepping up.<p>

Angela has gossip she needs to pass on, so Bella accepts her offer of a cuppa. She nibbles on an ANZAC bikkie as her cousin prattles on about the fast food chain that's opening in town and how "everyone reckons" the butcher is having an affair with the hairdresser.

"It's not an affair," Bella tells her, "when they're both single. Leave them be."

Bella glances from the clock to the window. The clouds are gathering, darkening. The horizon looks bruised. "I should go, Angie. Get home before it starts coming down." It's just an excuse. She's itching to touch her husband, to wrap herself around him and reconnect with him. She's missed him.

"Be good, girls." Bella kisses them both goodbye.

It starts to rain as she pulls back into the drive at home. She's laughing as she dashes from the car to the front door. Her steps kick up puffs of dust which mix with the rain to splatter mud on her shins.

She finds Edward sitting at the table when she closes the door behind her. He looks up from the tattered old paperback he's reading and grins.

"My pretty little barometer."

Bella finds a bobby pin in her pocket and smooths back the curls gathering at her temples. She pins them off her face.

"So what did you want to do tonight?"

He pulls her into his lap and she catches a whiff of something sweet on his breath. She tells herself it's nothing. But then he kisses her and she can _taste_ it.

It's like a punch to the gut. Bile rises in her throat.

She pushes him away and bursts into tears. "Where are you hiding it?"

"What?"

"The rum."

He shakes his head. Denies it. Says he hasn't had a drink in weeks. He shoves her off his lap and gets to his feet. He stumbles.

"Why can't you trust me?" he asks.

He leaves her standing there, arms wrapped around her middle, and goes into the bedroom, closes the door.

She stands there for what feels like hours, staring at the closed bedroom door. She wants to go to him, tell him she'll give him another chance. She'll tell him she'll go with him to AA meetings if it'll help. But she can't make her feet move.

She's still standing there when he comes out of the bedroom and grabs his keys. She opens her mouth to ask him where he's going but no sound comes out.

The front door slamming behind him releases her. Hot tears on her cheeks, she goes to the bedroom he's just vacated. It smells of him, in the good way. In the way that makes her want to crawl into their bed and stay there until he comes back. Because he has to come back, right?

She drags her gaze away from the bed and pulls down her suitcase from the wardrobe. She's only used it once, for their honeymoon. They'd gone to Fiji and spent their days on the beach, their nights tangled together.

Bella packs light, just a few outfits for her and for the girls. She's not even sure she believes she's actually doing this. But then she finds the bottles. A bottle of Bundy jammed in each of his work boots. She grabs them and takes them to the bathroom, watches the golden liquid disappear down the drain.

By the time she's gathered up her phone and its charger, her handbag and her keys, the rain has slowed. It's just sprinkling now. Through the living room window, she can see half a pastel-coloured rainbow.

She opens the front door and finds Edward standing there. He's soaking wet.

He looks from her face to the suitcase she's dragging. She thinks he might be crying again but she can't tell with the water that's dripping from his hair.

He puts a hand on her shoulder. His touch is gentle, and she wants to sink into him. For a moment, she thinks he's going to stop her. To beg her to stay. For a moment, she thinks she would.

But he leans in and kisses her cheek. "I'll get better," he says. "I promise."

He steps back. Watches her put the suitcase into the car. She sits in the driver's seat for a minute, staring at him while he stares at her. He lifts a hand in a wave and she puts the car in reverse.

She believes him. She has to.


	2. Chapter 21

_This got unexpectedly long, so I decided to split Part 2... into four (maybe five, eep!) chapters. Also, I'm daft and forgot to mention this, though many of you probably knew anyway. This story is based on the Paul Kelly song of the same name._

_MagTwi78, it's not your birthday anymore... but I love you every day, so there._

_Hadley Hemingway, thank you. Just... thank you. _

* * *

><p><strong>To Her Door.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two.<strong>

_She went to her brother's, got a little bar work / He went to The Buttery*, stayed about a year_

* * *

><p>Whoever named the town of Seaview either had no imagination, or they had the foresight to realise that, no matter what happened, no matter what was built in the small seaside village, it would always be the great swath of blue-green ocean that would steal any visitor's attention.<p>

The Seaview Hotel was the second non-residential building to be erected in Seaview. Only the lighthouse, perched on the cliffs a kilometre or so to the north, is older than the hotel. Over time, the place has been updated and then stripped back a number of times, and at present the exterior, with its generous wraparound verandahs, is all white-painted timber with marine blue accents.

Inside, it's all dark timber polished to a shine—a similar colour to Bella's eyes and hair as she checks her reflection in the mirror of the tiny staff bathroom. It's really just a toilet and sink in the cupboard where the cleaning gear is stored.

Standing amid the dirty mops and brooms, Bella smoothes her hair, then wraps the black apron around her waist. She girds herself for another night of pulling beers and fending off unwanted attention. She turns back to the mirror and paints on her lipstick smile. Big smiles mean better tips, and the tips are the only reason she's working here. It pays better than scanning groceries in the IGA.

Bella hates working at The Seaview Hotel, hates the thought that amongst the blokes leaning against the bar, there are probably more than a few who have wives and children waiting for them at home. She feels for those imagined women. She can remember too clearly the bitter taste that would fill her mouth as she waited for Edward to shuffle or stumble his way back home, evening after evening.

When Bella had picked up Rose and Alice from Angela's place four months ago, just an hour after she'd dropped them off, she'd had no idea where she was headed. She just knew she had to get away from Edward while her anger still burned. She had to leave before she relented and set the cycle to spin again.

She'd told Angela there was a family emergency as she buckled her daughters into their carseats. She knew her cousin would hear the truth—or the gossiped version of it—soon enough, but she wasn't ready to put it into words, to make it real like that. "I've left him." And how could she say that in front of the girls? Tell them they weren't going to see their daddy for a while?

They were on the Pacific Highway, Bella's vision blurring with the tears she refused to cry, when Rose spoke up, her little voice brimming with excitement.

"Mummy, are we going to Uncle Garrett's? This the way to Lucy and Henry's place!"

Bella had smiled, catching her daughter's eye in the rearview mirror. In a corner of her mind, she was amazed by her four-year-old's memory—it was at Christmas, five months earlier, that they'd taken this road to get her brother's place.

"Yeah, baby. We're going to go stay with Uncle Garrett and Aunty Kate for a while."

To be honest, Bella had had no such plans when she'd pulled onto the highway and headed north. She'd just been driving, trying to put distance between herself and that brokenness she's seen in her husband's gum-leaf green eyes.

It seemed like a pretty good option. Garrett had been nagging her for years to get the hell out of Dodge.

"You can even stay in the granny flat," he'd said, looking between Bella and Edward, his eyebrows rising with his sincerity. "At least until you find work."

Edward had laughed, a deep rumble of disbelief, and clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder.

"Mate," he'd said, "what the hell would I do?"

Edward had never been able to imagine life away from the town of his birth; Garrett had never been able to imagine himself staying.

Four years older than his sister, Garrett Swan had always been the dreamer of the family.

Though his father, his uncle, and almost every other grown man he'd ever known worked in the timber mill, Garrett was sure, before he'd even finished primary school, that that wasn't for him. He may not have know what he wanted from his life, but he always insisted it wasn't _that_.

At thirteen, he caused a bit of a stir in town when he rode his BMX down to the local library and joined himself up. His father's mates would shake their heads as they watched him, every Saturday morning, skidding to a stop in front of the small, brick building. Not bothering to chain up his bike—any thief would be bloody stupid to operate in a town this small and nosey—he'd disappear inside for an hour or two, then re-emerge, his backpack stuffed with as many books as Shelley Cope, the blue-rinsed librarian, would allow him to borrow.

From _Round the Twist_ to _Anna Karenina_, _Two Weeks with the Queen_ to _The Grapes of Wrath_, he consumed words like they were oxygen. For Garrett, reading wasn't a hobby, it was life. The worlds he visited between the pages of his books, the people he met inside them—they seemed more real to him than the pantomime he was forced to endure when he stepped outside his front door.

"Yer kid's a bit of an oddball," a few of the more old-fashioned blokes at the pub would tell Charlie Swan. "Always got his nose in one of them books."

Behind his back they were more direct; they reckoned that the Swan kid was likely to turn out a "fairy," a "poofter." After all, he had no interest in footy or cricket, never got himself in trouble with the boys in blue, and was absolutely useless with car and motorcycle engines.

The only person who had been surprised when Garrett Swan had packed his bags and headed to the big smoke the day after he finished the HSC was his sister.

Fourteen-year-old Bella had big plans of her own, but none of them required leaving town—or not for long anyway. She was going to study nursing by correspondence, get a job in the Base Hospital's Emergency Department, and have Edward Cullen's babies.

And even when Rose, and then Alice, had surprised her, she'd just shifted her plans around, figuring she'd just have to do things in a different order.

But pulling beers in a hotel in a swanky, seaside suburb? She never planned on this.

Bella turns her back on The Seaview's patrons and hides her yawn against her shoulder.

"You 'right, Bella?" Jane works with Bella on Thursday nights. Fridays and Saturdays, too. Like Bella, she's a uni student. Unlike Bella, she commutes into the city to take all her classes on campus.

"Fine," Bella says. She hoiks her smile back into place. "Tired. Had an assignment due this arvo."

Since arriving in Seaview, Bella has re-enrolled in the Bachelor of Nursing she was doing before Rose came along. In part, it's because she doesn't know what her future holds and she wants to be able to support her girls. She wants to show them, too, what hard work looks like, what it can achieve. And it's partly because she needs to keep her mind active. She needs the distraction, to stop her from constantly wondering where Edward is and what he's doing.

He'd sent her a text a few days after she left, telling her he'd applied for a residential rehab program. There was a six month wait-list for The Buttery, though, so he planned on going cold turkey in the meantime. That was in May—four months ago now. Bella doesn't know if he's still living in their house, or if he's sober. She doesn't know if he's gotten worse. He calls occasionally—most recently to wish Alice a happy birthday—but she never asks how he's doing and he never tells. She's too scared his answer will break her heart.

Jane makes a face. Her eye makeup tonight has a kind of smoky, sexy look that Bella envies, but would have no idea how to emulate. _I'd probably just look ridiculous anyway,_ she thinks.

"I've been working on one for my psych class all week," Jane says.

Bella nods, but her attention is quickly caught by the two young guys who step up to the bar. Ties loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, both men clutch a fistful of crisp green and orange notes, fresh from the ATM. She pulls their beers, mixes their cocktails, and smiles her thanks at the large tip they leave her.

And that's how the night goes: Smile, make drinks. Smile, hand over change, pocket tips, smile. Smile, wipe down the counters, restock the bar. Smile, smile, smile.

Bella's cheeks start to ache after a few hours. She remembers her mother's old wives' tale about the changing wind and she almost wishes it were true—if she could just step outside into the sea breeze that rushes down the main street in the evenings and have her smile frozen in place. If her smile was fixed on her lips, she wouldn't have to deal with the exhaustion she feels in working to keep it there.

Just before midnight, a young guy in a tight black shirt and even tighter black jeans steps up to the bar. He shakes his blonde head with its trendy haircut when Jane steps up to serve him. He wants Bella.

Jane sighs and Bella shoots her an apologetic glance. The guy creeps her out, but he tips really well, and Bella feels guilty that he's again refused to let Jane serve him. Maybe she should shove whatever tip he leaves into Jane's pocket when she's distracted later.

Bella hands her last customer his change and steps up to serve the newcomer. She angles herself to keep the cash register between them as she takes his order.

"A Hendrick's martini, and a shot of Jäger for you." He winks.

Bella keeps her smile in place even as she shakes her head. "Thanks, but I can't."

His eyebrows pull inwards, his sea-blue eyes shadowed, but he keeps his tone light. "Just one shot?"

Bella wraps her arms around her waist. The guy's gaze drops into her cleavage.

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"Aw, come on," he says. He leans one elbow on the bar; Bella takes a small step backwards.

"I really can't," she says. "The boss'd kill me."

He's persistent. "Okay. So have a drink with me after you get off… Or before." He chuckles at the innuendo.

Bella looks at her shoes, absently spinning her wedding ring with her thumb. She shakes her head again. "I'm sorry. I'm not interested."

His throat flushes a mottled red. "Too good for me are ya? Stupid moll. I was just offering because I felt sorry for you, you ugly bitch."

Bella looks across the room and catches Sam's eye. She jerks her head slightly. The bouncer frowns, squares his enormous shoulders, and starts to make his way through the crowd.

"Everything okay here?"

The guy takes a look at the huge, tattooed bouncer who has appeared beside him. _Security_ is written across his chest in large yellow type. The guy turns his sneer back on Bella.

"I wouldn't touch a dumb slut like you. Not even to hit you." He throws a twenty onto the bar and disappears into the crowd, not waiting for his change.

Sam frowns, his dark eyes searching Bella's. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Fine. Thanks, Sam." She wipes the already clean bar, trying to pretend her hands aren't shaking.

He sighs. "I'll tell the boys to keep an eye on him."

"Okay."

Sam hovers by the bar as Bella serves a few more patrons.

When there's a brief lull, he taps on the counter to get Bella's attention. "Did he keep pushing after you told him you were taken?"

Bella tucks her hair behind her ears and picks up her cloth again. She continues to wipe pointless circles on the bar. "I didn't say– I didn't tell him I was…"

Sam frowns at the gold ring adorning her left hand. "Why n–"

Jane interrupts him. "Why should she have to?"

"I'm not someone's property," Bella adds. She looks at Jane.

"Damn straight." Jane's nod is emphatic. "Why is it dickheads like that guy will back off if she's taken, but not if she says she's not interested, huh?"

Sam considers that. "Because they think they're still in with a chance?"

Jane snorts. "Because they think women are property. And they respect another man's claim on a woman, but not her ownership of herself."

Bella gives a little nod. She likes Jane's feminism, so different from the understanding of the world her parents raised her with. Sometimes, though, she feels like she's playing dress-up in Jane's ideas. She hasn't quite grown into them enough to make them her own.

It's a lot to get her head around. On one hand, she hears the media proclaim that women and men are equals. She knows that's true. (Although Sam always says he's pretty sure his wife is actually his better). And yet, she sees the very same outlets routinely treat women as sexual objects who are there to be looked at and not listened to. She sees the way that so much advertising offers women up for consumption—their breasts and backsides are used to sell everything from soft drink to luxury cars. Talk about mixed messages.

Sam nods thoughtfully as he scans the room. Bella assumes he's looking for the foul-mouthed creep.

"Looks like the little shit's taken off," he says. "Probably gone home with his tail between his legs. That type are usually more bark than bite." He raps on the counter with his knuckles. "But just give me a wave if you spot him again, all right?"

"Sure." Bella shoves the dickhead and his harsh words out of her mind and gives her attention to the group of women in their mid-twenties who are crowded around a cocktail menu. One of them is wearing a tiara with a fluro-pink veil attached, and a matching sash that declares her the bride-to-be.

"Congratulations." Bella hitches her smile back into place. "When's the big day?" She pushes away the pang in her chest, and reaches for a handful of shot glasses.

* * *

><p>It's almost three in the morning when Bella gets back to Garrett and Katie's place. The three nights a week that she works, Alice and Rose bunk down in her brother's house, so Bella is free to switch on all the lights in the granny flat and finally let out her frustration.<p>

"Shit. Fuck. Fucking fuck. Stupid, shitty arsehole. Motherfuck, you fucking fucking fuckhead." She'd been collecting the obscenities like a chain of paperclips. Each dropped glass, each sleazy come-on, each time she realised too late that she'd given someone too much change, each time some jerk blew his smoke-and-beer breath in her face.

"Fuck. Shithead. Fuckity fuck. Shit."

She pulls off her shirt, which smells of sweat, smoke, and vodka, and opens the tiny bar fridge. She looks at the six-pack of beer on the shelf for a long moment.

Do I _need_ one?

_No_, she thinks. _I don't need one. But I'd bloody well like one_.

She frees a bottle from its cardboard case, then changes her mind and reaches instead for the half-full bottle of Sunkist. She can probably count on one hand the number of alcoholic drinks she's allowed herself in the months since she left Edward. She's terrified of finding herself travelling the same road, of realising too late she's formed a dependence on the relaxing buzz found at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

She groans as she sits down on the faded, floral-print couch with her glass of fizzy orange drink. Even though it's late, and she's exhausted, her mind is still busy.

The pile of paperwork on the coffee table is just one of the things on her mind. Rose is supposed to start school in the new year, and the local public school's "Early Birds" program starts next week. Bella has only half-filled out the forms. She didn't think to bring Rose's birth certificate when she left Edward, which means she either needs to call him and ask him to send it up, or purchase a new one.

As it is, she's still not ready to accept that Rose will start Kindergarten in Seaview.

Katie was the one who brought it up—the program for next year's Kindy classes was mentioned in the school newsletter that Lucy had brought home last week.

"But we might be home by the time school starts," Bella had said. "I don't want to confuse Rosie, you know? If she thinks she'll start at Seaview, and then we end up going back home."

"I understand, Bella." Her sister-in-law had been sympathetic but firm. "But I think you need to consider the possibility that you won't be home by then. You might need to make some decisions—long-term ones—that don't revolve around Edward. That don't depend on all those what-ifs you're hanging on to."

Bella had shut down the discussion then, telling her girls it was time to go back to the flat to have a bath and get ready for bed. But Kate's words had burrowed into her mind, and they kept returning to poke and prod her through the day and night.

On one hand, it wasn't a big deal—children move house and change schools all the time, and they cope fine. Rose could start school here in Seaview and yes, it would take some adjusting if they then moved home, but it wouldn't be a huge problem. But, on the other hand, making this decision without Edward's input… that felt monumental. Planning a future without him, putting together a puzzle without that particular piece, _that_ terrified Bella.

After all, Edward had been a part of all of Bella's plans since she was fourteen.

He starred first in her imaginary ones, in her fantasies, in the secret sketches for the future she drew in her journals and outlined on the steam-fogged shower glass. _BS + EC 4EVA_.

Bella had always known Edward Cullen, just as she knew Harry the publican and Mrs Cope the librarian and Gianna the hairdresser. In a town as small as theirs, everyone knew everyone and always had. And for years, she had neither liked nor disliked Edward. She felt the same way about him that she did the mill, the post office, the smell of sawdust and eucalyptus. He was just a natural part of the landscape. He just was.

But her crush had sprouted when Edward did. Like him, it seemed to shoot up overnight, blossoming into something new and quite wonderful.

She was in Year 9 when, all of a sudden, Bella found herself interested in where Edward was and what he was doing. She would sit out on the oval at lunch time with the girls, watching him play footy with the rest of the guys, hoping she wasn't being too obvious. He was easy to spot, having a few centimetres on most of the boys, and Bella had memorised the sound of his laugh as it rang out across the field. It made her stomach flip-flop, the same feeling she'd had as a little girl when she would slide down the huge metal slippery dip in the park.

But the feeling she'd get as she watched his lips shape his words when he spoke to her, or the ones that fluttered through her when he smiled, or when she watched him run his fingers through his hair, or when she admired the curve of his calf muscles as he rode his BMX home from school—those were not little-girl feelings.

The bonfire night on Jessica Stanley's parents' property was in mid-August. Bella can still remember the smell of wood smoke and charcoal, of burning eucalyptus and baking damper. She remembers wearing a chunky, red cardigan her grandmother had knitted for her the year before. She remembers the soft, scratchy feel of the merino wool against her palms as she pulled the sleeves down.

Edward squatted beside her fold-out camping chair. He had a bottle of Bundaberg Ginger Beer in one hand. "Hi."

Bella smiled. Hoped that the flickering orange flames of the bonfire would explain away the rush of heat to her cheeks. "Hey."

He took a swig of his drink. Fire reflected in his eyes. "You wanna, um, you wanna go for a walk?"

It was code, and Bella knew it. And everyone else would know, too, if she stood up now and followed Edward into the bush. She could feel, rather than hear, her pulse thudding in her middle ear, muffling the snap-crackle of burning wood.

She nodded, biting down on her smile, and stood up. Her stomach was full of squirming things, and it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. Feeling hot, though they were walking away from the fire, she pushed the sleeves of her cardigan up. The wool was itchy where it circled her forearms and brushed against her neck.

Edward waited until they were mostly out of sight of their classmates to take Bella's hand. It was almost uncomfortable, his much larger fingers interlocked with hers. She liked it, though—the discomfort made it real. Edward Cullen was really holding her hand, leading her through the trees, matching his long-legged strides to her shorter steps as they crunched their way over dried gum leaves.

He stopped a little way up the firetrail—close enough that they could still see the orange glow of firelight and hear the shouted laughter of their friends, but hopefully far enough away that no one could see or hear them.

"So, um…" Edward shoved his free hand through his hair.

Bella chewed her lip.

"It's a heaps nice night."

She nodded. "Yeah."

"We, um, we don't have to… if you don't want."

Bella took a big breath. "I want to."

Her cheeks burned and she looked down at the ground, up the stars twinkling through the canopy of branches overhead, back at the fire. Anywhere but Edward's face. "I haven't… I don't know how…"

He shook his hand free of hers, and for a second, Bella thought he was going to walk away. But then his hands were on her shoulders. And his face was so close she could feel his breath on her lips.

His kiss tasted like ginger and the sweet-hot vodka he'd hidden in the soft drink. They bumped noses a few times, and then Bella felt Edward's tongue against hers and her stomach quivered. She grabbed his forearms, gasping into his mouth as he groaned into hers.

It was a few minutes before he pulled away. "I, uh, I reckon you've got the hang of it."

Want made Bella bold. "I think–" her voice was breathy "–I should practice some more."

Edward chuckled as Bella lifted onto her tiptoes, her face tilted towards his. He was still smiling as he pressed his lips to hers.

By Monday morning, everyone at school knew that Bella Swan and Edward Cullen were going out.

"Going out where?" her dad had asked. The standard dad joke.

Bella rolled her eyes at him, but she was relieved. She half-expected her dad would tell her she was too young to be "going out" with a boy, but he made no mention of it. Maybe he expected it wouldn't last; maybe he figured it was her mother's job to give her The Talk.

But Bella never got The Talk. Not from her parents, anyway.

She learnt about sex in PE class, from her friends' whispered gossip, and from the articles she read in _Dolly_ and _Girlfriend_. And she learnt the rest when, almost a year after their first kiss, she and Edward put their limited knowledge into practice.

Bella sighs and gets to her feet. She rinses her empty glass and switches the lights off in the kitchenette and the living area. She cleans her teeth then washes her makeup off—her skin breaks out every time she forgets to wipe off her BB cream.

She climbs into bed and rubs her legs against cool cotton. At work, when she's studying, when she's nagging the girls to eat their dinner and get in the bath, it's easy enough to push away any thought of Edward. But in the dark, when the bed feels too big and too cold and the sheets smell too girly, it's much more difficult. And when she's just been dredging up memories, remembering their first kiss and their first time… It's impossible.

Bella stares at the ceiling, watching shadow branches reach across the room, leaves fluttering like clawing fingers. She wonders where Edward is and what he's doing. Is he in their bed, snoring his way to another hangover? Is he sleepless, like she is?

Maybe he's lying in the same silvered light, smoothing an arm across the empty space beside him, wondering what she's doing. The thought is strangely comforting.

When she finally drifts off, Bella is curled up on the left side of the double bed. Edward always sleeps on the right.

* * *

><p><em>*The Buttery, located on the North Coast of NSW, is a residential rehabilitation facility for people addicted to drugs, alcohol, andor gambling. _


	3. Chapter 3

_A big, huge, enormous thank you to the lovely Hadley Hemingway for her help with this. _

_And lots of love to my good mate, MagTwi78._

* * *

><p><strong>To Her Door<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two, cont.<strong>

* * *

><p>There's a faint smell of smoke in the air when the shrilling of her alarm clock drags Bella from sleep. No matter how many times Katie has told her to sleep in after a late shift at the bar, that she doesn't mind watching the girls until it's time to take Lucy to school, Bella won't stop setting her alarm for seven-thirty. It's bad enough, in her eyes, that she has to leave the girls to bunk down in their cousin's room the three nights a week she works at The Seaview.<p>

She showers and dresses quickly, then heads around to the main house. She can definitely smell the acrid tang of bushfire smoke over the perfumed frangipani trees planted in Garrett and Katie's front yard.

Lucy opens the front door when Bella knocks.

"Aunty Bella, can you do me a mermaid braid?" Her niece is already in her green-and-white checkered school dress, her socks on and her shoes laced, but her strawberry blonde hair is wild.

"Sure, Luce." Bella follows her niece inside.

In the kitchen, Bella finds Alice and Rosie eating their breakfast. They're dressed in the clean clothes Bella packed for them yesterday evening, but are still puffy-eyed and messy-haired from sleep.

"Hi, Mummy!"

"Mummyyyyyyyyy!"

Bella loves their huge smiles and the way their little faces brighten when they see her, but she also feels a pang of guilt. She kisses each girl's temple, breathing in their clean, sweet scent.

"Morning, Bella." Crouched in front of his Bumbo seat, Katie is spooning cereal into Henry's little bird mouth. He squawks in frustration as Katie pauses long enough to stand up and kiss Bella's cheek. "All right, all right." Katie bobs down again and deposits another spoonful of soggy Weetbix into her son's mouth.

"Hungry boy," says Bella, leaning down to ruffle his almost-ginger curls.

"Hey, sis." Garrett hands her a mug of tea. He's dressed for work, though his tie hangs loosely around his neck, unknotted.

"Thanks."

He waves off her gratitude, frowning. "Can you smell smoke?"

Bella swallows a mouthful of hot tea. It's strong and sweet and comforting. Garrett has always been able to make the perfect cup. She doesn't know if it's because he has some secret tea-making technique, or if it's because tea just tastes better when it's made by someone who cares about you.

"Yeah," Bella says. "I could smell it as soon as I woke up."

Garrett tugs on the cord by the window and the Venetian blinds slowly swing open. He squints out into the bright September morning.

To the west, the sky is smudged with smoke. It almost looks like someone has taken an old eraser to it, dirtying the edges of the clear blue expanse.

Katie taps her iPhone a few times and Bella is impressed that she can keep the spoon moving between Henry's mouth and the bowl of cereal even as she watches the screen. "According to the RFS app, it's a hazard reduction burn," she says. "in the National Park."

Bella and Garrett sigh with relief. It's too early in the season for bushfires to pose a real threat, but they've both lived through too many summers of watchfulness to be totally at ease when smoke scents the air.

"Help yourself to some breakfast, if you want," Katie tells Bella. "There's some raisin toast in the bread bin."

"Nah, I'll grab something later. Thanks, though." She turns to Lucy, who, comb in hand, has been shadowing Bella since she came inside. "You got an elastic?"

"Go get the magic tangle spray, too, Luce," Katie says, and Lucy spins on her heel and skips down the hallway, her long hair swinging.

Bella braids Lucy's hair, then Rose's, mermaid-style as requested. Alice's hair isn't quite long enough to manage the diagonal french braid, so, pre-empting a tantrum, Bella offers her "Captain America pigtails." Her just-turned three-year-old is obsessed with The Avengers cartoons.

Alice shakes her head. "Mummy do Hulk piggy tails."

Bella smiles. "Okay. Hulk pigtails it is."

She combs through Alice's curls, occasionally spraying them with Katie's homemade "magic" detangling spray—it's just water, conditioner, and a drop of lavender oil—then pulls them up into little bunches.

"Okay." She hands Alice the comb and spray bottle. "Put this back in the bathroom, please."

Alice runs off, and Bella smiles when she hears her daughter's "Hulk Smash!" echoing in the bathroom.

"What's the plan for today?" Katie asks. She wipes Henry's face and hands with a damp washcloth, then sets him on the floor. He's off immediately, crawling in his funny one-legged shuffle towards the living room.

"Gar, Henry's heading your way."

"Got him."

Bella finishes the last few mouthfuls of her tea. It's lukewarm now, but she's used to that. It's the first law of motherhood: If you sit down with a hot drink, you will be interrupted.

"I thought I'd take the girls to the beach this morning," she says. "before it gets too hot. And then I've got some reading to get done when they have their rest."

Katie nods. "Do you want to send them over here to rest?"

Bella shakes her head. She appreciates the offer, but it makes her feel terrible, too. "It's fine. But, if you want, Henry could come to the beach with us this morning? If you don't need him to have a sleep?"

"That'd be so great. Garrett's got a client coming in about–" Katie checks her watch "–twenty minutes, and I've got to run a few errands after I drop Luce to school, so… yes. Thank you so much. It'll make my morning a lot easier."

Katie looks genuinely relieved, and Bella feels good about being able to repay her sister-in-law's generosity, even in such a small way.

She takes the kids to the southern end of the beach, where the surf is usually small and the rock formations have created a sandy-bottomed tide pool that's perfect for the girls to play in. She stands knee-deep in the water, with Henry on her hip. He doesn't like the water much—when Bella squats down to dip his toes in, he shrieks and tries to climb over her shoulder like a frightened koala.

"Sorry, buddy." She rubs soothing circles on his back until he stops fussing and rests his head against her shoulder.

Rose and Alice splash around for a while, bobbing under the water and then jumping up, spurting water from their mouths like little fountains. When their lips turn blue and they start to shiver, they race out of the water, ignoring their towels, and drop into the sand to build castles.

Bella settles Henry on a towel and hands him a strawberry. He sucks on it happily, the bright red juices running down his chin and forearm.

"Alice! Stop it." The whingey tone in Rose's voice has Bella's shoulders slumping.

"Hulk smash!" Another sandcastle disappears beneath Alice's fists.

"Stop iiiiiiiiiiit."

"Allie, honey. Don't smash Rosie's castles, please."

"Hulk smash!"

"Alice Mary Cullen. Come here now."

The little girl stamps across the sand towards her mother, her lips pulled into a pout, her brown eyes downcast.

Bella adjusts her bikini and grapples with her patience. "Alice, what did Mummy say?"

"No smashy."

"That's right. And what did you do?"

"Hulk smash Rosie's castle."

"Is that good listening, Alice?"

"No."

"Do I need to take you home and put you on the time-out spot?"

"Nooooooo." Alice rubs her fist into her eye. "I sorry, Mummy."

"Can you please go say sorry to Rosie, too?"

Alice turns towards her older sister. "Sorry, Rosie," she yells.

Rose looks up from her castle, her hands going to her hips in a way that has Bella biting down on her smile. "Don't do it again."

"I won't." Alice flops onto the sand next to Bella and puts her head on Bella's thigh. Bella runs her fingers through her daughter's hair and brushes away the sand sticking to her cheek.

These are the moments that Bella finds so hard without Edward.

She's outnumbered by the girls, without Edward standing beside her. He's not here to insist their daughters listen to what she says, to intervene when they start to squabble. She doesn't have him to help carry them home when they're tired and whinging about their feet being sore. She can't look across at him to share a smile with when Alice whispers against her skin, "I love you, Mama."

Rose grows bored of making sandcastles after a while. She comes over to where Bella is sitting with the two smaller children and gives Alice a shove, trying to make her sister move so she can sit beside her mother. Bella lifts a strawberry-scented Henry into her lap, and pats the sand on her other side.

"Over here, Rose. Leave Alice, please." She passes out water bottles and the boxes of sliced fruit and rice crackers she packed before they left home.

It affords her a moment of peace, listening to the gentle lap of the sea against the sand and the distant laughter of other beachgoers. The sun is warm on her shoulders, as are the three little bodies pressed against her.

"Mummy?"

She looks down at Rose. "Yes, honey?"

"I want Daddy." Rose's eyes are the same shade of green as Edward's, but they're filled with the same longing Bella feels.

"I know you do, sweetheart. But Daddy has to do lots of work at the moment."

It's the same story she's been telling the girls since they left home. Daddy has to do lots of work, which is keeping him very busy. She tells them that they'd all be so lonely without him that they've come to stay with Garrett and Katie so they have extra company.

"Can we spike him soon?" Rose, who is learning to sound out words, read _Skype_ as _Spyke_, and the name has become a family in-joke.

"I'm sure we can spike him soon. I'll send him a message and see if he has any credit for his internet, okay?"

"Okay."

"And you know, when we get home, you could make him a card or write a letter and we can post it to him."

Rosie seems content with this, but more guilt builds up inside Bella. She hates lying to the girls. She hates that Edward has put her in the position where she feels she has to lie to them.

After they've walked home from the beach, pink-cheeked and trailing sand, and had some lunch, Bella drops Henry back off to Katie, then settles the girls in their room for their rest time. Even if they don't sleep, though Alice's eyelids are already drooping, she insists they have an hour of "quiet time" in their bedroom every afternoon.

Bella is immersed in a paper on issues in Indigenous health care when her phone starts to vibrate.

She answers without looking at the screen, assuming it will be Katie or Garrett. No one else ever calls her. "Hello?"

"Bella." The longing in Edward's voice—she feels it in her stomach.

"Hey. How are you?"

His answer slices right through her. "I miss my girls."

"They miss you, too. So much. They're sleep–" She shakes her head. "I can get them up. Hang on, I'll–"

"Wait."

She's out of her chair when he cuts her off.

"Bella. I–I meant you, too. I miss all of you."

She rubs the heel of her hand against her sternum as she sinks back into her seat. "I miss you, too. God, I…" It's impossible to squeeze the enormity of her longing into words. How can she package everything she's feeling into a neat little sentence?

She misses him. She loves him. She needs him. She's so fucking mad at him. She forgives him. She wants him here. She wants to be there.

"Bel… I, um, well…"

Bella imagines him tugging his hand through his hair. She can hear his uncertainty, and she knows he'd be looking at the ground as he speaks.

"A space opened up. So… I go this weekend. To The Buttery."

"That's, uh, that's…" Bella doesn't know what it is. Is it _good_? In one way it is; a place in the residential rehab facility means he'll be getting the help he needs. But it also terrifies her. Because this is it, his chance to get himself sorted. And what if he can't? Or what if he does, but he decides he doesn't want to be with her anymore?

Edward sighs; she hears his breath scrape across the microphone and it makes her feel so far away from him.

"I know," he says. "I'm so fucking scared."

"How long will you be there?"

"Seven and a half months."

Bella doesn't know what to say. She does the maths. _April._

Rose will have turned five. Christmas will have been and gone. The new year will be a third done. Alice will have started preschool. Rose will have started Kindergarten.

"Bel? I need to ask you… Don't bring the girls up, okay? Even after the first sixteen weeks is up. Just– I mean, I get it if you don't want to come at all. And I don't really know what it will be like, but I–I don't want the girls to see me in some weird place like that."

It's easy to agree; Bella is relieved that he's taken that decision out of her hands. The rules of the program are stringent: No phone calls or visits for the first sixteen weeks and no letters for the first six. Her relief is chased away by guilt.

Edward changes the subject by asking her how her studies are going. She tells him about her assignments, about the residential schools she has to do for each subject. "It's just for a few days. But I'm, well, I'm really scared," she says.

"About leaving the girls?"

"No." Bella winces. "I mean, because I _know_ Garrett and Katie will take good–"

"I know what you meant, Bel. You scared about the work being hard?"

"Not even that," she sighs. "Just… I mean, I'm twenty-five. I'll probably be way older than all the people in my classes. And I have these visions of like, having to do stuff in pairs and no one wanting to work with me. Dumb stuff like that."

Edward doesn't laugh at her, and she's grateful for that. He's quiet for a moment and when he speaks, she can tell he's choosing his words carefully.

"I, um… Well, I know I don't really have the right to be, and I know it's my fault you've had to… I–I'm heaps proud of you, babe. It– These last few months have to have been so fucking hard on you and I–I want you to know that I think you're amazing. Everything you're doing. And I– It probably doesn't mean much, not yet, but when we're– When we're all together again, I want to… I'm going to do whatever it takes for you to be proud of me, too."

His voice grows thick with emotion and Bella aches, longing to wrap her arms around him, even to just hold his hand. She looks down at her own hand, trying to remember the feeling of his fingers woven between hers.

She gives him the only thing she can. "I know you will." She wipes the tears from her cheek. "Let me wake the girls up so they can say hi."

* * *

><p>Seven and a half months seemed an exhaustingly long time to Bella when Edward told her he was going away. And there are times when she feels every minute, every second of it.<p>

It's usually when she's at work. Or when she's away from the girls for eight days, doing her residential schools for uni. Or when she's listening to the postman's motorbike coming down the street. At those times, she watches the second hand tick its way around the clock face, watches the way it seems to pause, deliberating, before it reluctantly jerks forward, marking off another moment gone, never to be reclaimed.

And while seconds drag, months pass.

Uni finishes up for the year. Bella sits her exams and passes all her subjects—she even manages a Distinction in one subject.

Rose goes to the Early Bird program at Seaview Public—and she loves it. Katie passes on the school dresses Lucy has grown out of, so Bella will only need to purchase a few things at the start of the school year. But she does purchase, on Rose's request, the wide-brimmed school hat. It's forest green with the school emblem on the front and Rose wears it everywhere they go for weeks on end. Bella takes that as a good sign.

Spring rushes on into summer, bringing long days and oppressive heat—and enormous electricity bills. Bella puts the girls in swimming lessons. She can afford them now that Rosie's officially "graduated"—they even wear mortarboards fashioned from black cardboard—from preschool.

Christmas decorations appear in the stores. The smell of fruit mince pies and plum puddings being cooked in the bakery spill out onto the street. Garrett decorates the house with fairy lights and well-meaning, if overbearing, strangers in the supermarket tell Alice and Rose they better be good because Santa's watching.

When the school holidays start, Seaview virtually doubles in population. The beach is busy, the water between the red and yellow flags packed with people. Traffic in the main street slows to a crawl. The Seaview Hotel is full to capacity from open to close.

As Bella is leaving for work on a Wednesday afternoon, Garrett is just pulling into the driveway. Bella was offered full time work at the hotel, but she only picked up the one extra shift, despite how useful the extra money would be. She feels guilty enough as it is, leaving the girls with Katie so often.

"Hey, sis."

"Hey." Bella kisses Garrett's cheek. He offers her a lift to work but she declines. It's only a short walk and, as she's finishing at ten o'clock tonight, she feels safe enough walking.

"So, listen. You got a sec?"

Bella nods. "Sure. What's up?"

"I didn't know what you want to do for Christmas, but I figured you wouldn't want to go home."

Bella hasn't given it much thought. Or, more truthfully, she's deliberately avoided thinking about it.

"Well, there's no– I mean, Edward's not there so…" She shrugs.

Garrett nods. "Yeah. So, Mum rang, wanting us to all go home, and I figured, well– I asked them to come down here instead. I should've checked with you but–"

"Gar, it's your house. You don't need to check with me."

"But still, you might've… I dunno. Are you really okay with it?"

Bella reaches out and grips her brother's shoulder. "It's fine."

Garrett pats her back as she hugs him, and Bella recognises the comforting rhythm as the same one her grandmother would tap on her shoulder blade with every hug.

She pulls back. "I should go. But let me know what I should make for Christmas lunch."

* * *

><p>The week before Christmas, Bella is behind the bar at The Seaview when a tall, dark-skinned man approaches her. He orders two Fat Yaks in soft, accented speech and, looking almost embarrassed, asks if they serve milkshakes, too.<p>

Bella smiles. They have all the ingredients on hand for various cocktails, so she says, "I guess so, yeah."

She pops the lids off the beers and then sets about putting together the drink. "Oh. What flavour?"

The guy smiles; his teeth are bright against his dark skin. Bella takes note of his high cheekbones, his full lips, the almond shape of his dark eyes. He's undeniably handsome.

"Which flavours can you manage?"

"Um… I can definitely do Vanilla. And I could use liqueur to–"

"No." He shakes his head. "I don't drink alcohol."

Maybe it's that answer that really catches Bella's attention, that keeps her chatting to him as she blends ice cream, milk, and vanilla essence. She asks him where he's from (what is now South Sudan, via several years in Auckland), what he does (he's an accountant), and what's brought him to town (he's on holidays with his sister's family).

He picks up the beers and the milkshake, then puts them back down and offers Bella his hand. She shakes it.

"My name is Paul."

"Bella."

* * *

><p>Christmas Day dawns hazy and humid. Sweat gathers on the back of Bella's neck and behind her knees as she moves around her tiny kitchenette, slicing fruit to decorate the pavlova she made the day before.<p>

Alice and Rose's squeals are blown in on the breeze and Bella smiles as she chops up strawberries and mango, occasionally popping a piece of the juicy fruit into her mouth. The girls are in the backyard with Lucy and Garrett, playing in the inflatable pool and slide that Garrett erected in the dark of night as a surprise for them to wake up to.

Bella's mother walks into the little granny flat without knocking, Henry perched on her hip. He's wearing a red onesie and a headband with reindeer antlers sprouting from it. He's not happy about it either. He keeps trying to tug it off his head, but his grandmother swats his hand away.

"Merry Christmas, Mum."

Bella holds her fruit juice-sticky hands up, palms towards herself, as she kisses her mother, and then Henry. "Happy Christmas, little man."

"Bah," Henry says. He again tries to pull off the ridiculous headband.

Bella gives him a sympathetic nod. "Did Nanny put those on you, champ? Isn't she mean, putting that silly thing on your head?"

Renée Swan ignores her comment, looking instead at the big, glass bowl sitting on the bench. "What's this?"

Bella washes her hands and reaches for a tea towel to dry them. "Trifle."

Renée looks dubious. "There's no custard. Or peaches."

Bella swallows her sigh. She expected this. "I don't like custard, Mum. I've never liked custard. And I don't like that jelly-soaked sponge cake stuff either. So I googled, and I found a modern twist that I hoped _everyone_ would like."

When she showed Katie the recipe, her sister-in-law had breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Thank fuck," she'd said. She bit her lip and looked around to make sure little ears hadn't overheard her. Lowering her voice, she said, "I bloody hate trifle. I eat it every year because your mum is just so proud of it, but I just… I really don't like it."

Renée peers into the bowl and sniffs it carefully, as if she's expecting something rotten to be hiding beneath the sliced strawberries and curls of white chocolate.

"So, what _is_ in it, then?"

"Raspberries and strawberries, white chocolate, mascarpone, savoiardi soaked in Bailey's… It's kind of like tiramisu and trifle had a baby."

His grandmother's distraction with Bella's new-fangled desserts gives Henry the chance to wrench the antlers of his head and throw them to the floor with a "bah bah bah." He leans away from Renée and reaches for Bella, his little hands flexing.

"Come here, little mate." Bella takes the baby boy from her mother, kisses his cheeks, and perches him on her own hip.

"Mum, can you carry the pav for me?" She picks up the trifle bowl, holding it out of Henry's reach. "We'll take them over and put them in Katie's fridge."

Once the desserts are safely in Katie's enormous stainless steel refrigerator, Bella changes Henry into his rashie and sunhat, and takes him outside to where Garrett is keeping watch over the three girls—and his barbeque. Charlie Swan is sitting at the outdoor table, which is under the shade cloth shelter Garrett had installed the month before. Bella's father has a beer in one hand, and his walking stick is hanging over the back of his chair. Empty pistachio nut shells are scattered on the table in front of him.

The sizzling noises from the barbeque increase as steam and smoke fill the air.

"That's probably enough, don't you reckon?" Charlie is watching Garrett brush some kind of marinade on the prawn skewers. From the smell, Bella guesses there's garlic, chilli, and coriander involved.

Garrett shakes his head but says nothing. He picks up his tongs and starts turning the sausages.

Bella kisses both men, and deposits Henry in her dad's lap. Henry reaches for Charlie's bearded chin and giggles as his fingers brush across his Pop's whiskers.

"Mum, Mum! Watch me, Mummy!"

"Wats me, too, Mummy!"

"And me, Aunty Bella!"

Rosie, Alice, and Lucy take it turns to zoom down the inflatable slide and land with a splash in the wading pool. The girls' noses are smeared with pink zinc and they're all wearing the cosies and rash shirts "Santa" left under the tree.

Katie comes outside with an expensive looking camera, which she immediately points at the three girls. Bella watches her fiddle with the settings, and makes a mental note to get copies she can post to Edward.

Thinking about her husband layers a melancholy mood over the celebration for Bella. She misses him so much. She keeps expecting to catch sight of him in her periphery, grabbing a beer from the ice-filled Eski, or pinching her bum as she dishes salad for the girls. His absence seems to grow in her mind until it almost has its own presence at the table.

It seems he's on everyone's mind, because it's as she's dishing out the pavlova that Renée asks, "Have you heard from Edward, Bella?"

Bella accepts the plastic plate of dessert her mother hands her. "He writes every week."

"How's he doing?"

Bella knows her father means well, but the question seems absurd. _He's voluntarily surrendered his freedom for seven and a half months, how the fuck do you think he's doing?_

"Better," she says. "He misses us."

She shoots a guilty look across the yard to where Rose and Alice are sitting in the grass, playing with plastic figurines. Black Widow, The Hulk, Iron Man, and Captain America are ranged along the sandstone wall of the garden bed, taking part in some sort of epic battle that involves gumnuts and pebbles being thrown at them.

"It's been _quite_ the topic of conversation about town," Renée says. She seems oblivious to the wary expressions on Garrett and Katie's faces.

Bella says nothing; she stares at the orange square of mango on the top of her slice of pavlova.

"You wouldn't believe how many people have asked me if you took off with another bloke. The ladies at the bowlo reckon you were carrying on behind his back and that's what drove him to dr–"

"Fuck's sake, Mum."

Renée looks taken aback by the venom in Garrett's voice.

Bella drops her head into her hands, swallowing around the lump in her throat. She doesn't know why the gossip hurts so much, even when she knows there's no truth to it. Maybe it's just the glib way her mother is passing it on, as casually as if it weren't about her own daughter.

Katie reaches over to squeeze Bella's knee as Garrett continues.

"We don't give a shit what the ladies at the bowlo think, and you should know better than to be repeating that kind of gossip."

He waits until Bella looks up at him before he continues. "Sis, the place you and Edward are in right now sucks. I… _We_–" He gestures around the table "–can't even imagine how tough you're doing it. Today especially. But for what it's worth, I'm heaps proud of you. And of Edward. It's not easy to make the kind of hard decisions you guys have, but they're the right ones if you want a healthy family in the long run."

Bella wipes her cheeks and reaches for her glass of wine. Her hand is shaking.

"Thanks, Gar. It means a lot, actually." It's only in hearing his words that she's realised how much she needed them. To hear someone tell her she's done—is doing—the right thing. For Edward. For her kids. For herself.

Garrett winks and picks up his spoon. "Now. This trifle looks bloody amazing, ladies."


	4. Chapter 4

_Hadley Hemingway: thank you, my friend, for everything._

_MagTwi78: Happy New Year, girl. _

* * *

><p><strong>To Her Door.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two, cont.<strong>

* * *

><p>Bella is pushing a loaded trolley through Coles when it happens. She's talking to Alice, who's sitting in the toddler seat of the trolley, about the spaghetti she's going to make for dinner when she feels cool linoleum instead of warm rubber beneath her left foot. A thong blow-out. Limping a little, she moves the trolley to the side of the aisle and stoops to retrieve her useless shoe.<p>

* * *

><p>"Ah, shit."<p>

Edward had stopped in his tracks. His eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, were full of concern. "What's up?"

"My shoe just broke." She pointed at her sandal. The strap that ran across the top of her foot had snapped. The shoe flapped uselessly from where it was still buckled around her ankle.

"Bugger."

Bella groaned as she bent down to undo the buckle. "Shit, shit, shit." The tarred road was scalding hot under the midday sun. She grabbed Edward's shoulder as she tried to balance on her right foot.

"I'm sorry," she said. For Bella, it was the summer holidays between Year 11 and Year 12. Edward had two weeks annual leave as the mill had shut down over the Christmas-New Year period, and he'd turned up on her doorstep about half an hour earlier, giving her only just enough time to put on her shoes before he hustled her out the door. He had a backpack and a smile full of secrets.

Edward grinned as he swung the bag off his shoulders. "Are you seriously apologising for breaking your shoe?"

Bella shrugged. She planted her left foot on the broken shoe to prevent the sole of her foot from being seared by the bitumen.

"You obviously have a plan for what we're doing today and it looks like I just ruined it."

They'd been walking for a good twenty-five minutes, leaving behind the curbed and guttered streets for the scrub-lined roads that bordered the farms on the outskirts of town.

"Nah," he said. "It's cool."

He lifted his hat to run a hand through his hair, then replaced it. "Okay. Either you wear my shoes…"

Bella wrinkled her nose, which made him laugh. He wasn't wearing socks, and the thought of putting her feet into his sweaty, smelly Volleys was just disgusting.

"Righto, then." Edward handed her the bag. "You carry this."

He turned around and bent his knees. "Jump on."

"Edward. Don't be stupid."

"It's this or you wear my shoes."

Bella put her arms through the backpack straps and then put her hands on Edward's shoulders. "Don't drop me."

She jumped; he caught her under the thigh with an "oof" he couldn't quite muffle.

"You suck," she told him. "You're not going to be able to carry me the whole way home."

"Wanna bet?"

"Yeah."

"Hey?"

"Yes. Let's make a bet."

Edward ducked his head, trying to rub his cheek on his shoulder.

"You right?"

"Got an itch." His nose and mouth twisted as he tried to chase it off his skin.

Bella giggled as she scratched his cheek. Her finger came away damp with his sweat and she grimaced as she wiped the moisture on the sleeve of his T-shirt.

"Okay," Edward said. "If I get you home without dropping you, or taking a break, then we go skinny-dipping in the river."

With Bella perched on his back, Edward didn't see her eye roll or her red cheeks. It wasn't like they hadn't done that before. And it could be worse—she'd seen a lot of nudie runs through the main street of town that were the result of lost bets.

"Fine."

She stared at the back of his neck, noticing the way the ends of his hair were curling up with the heat and his perspiration, as she named her own terms. "If you drop me, or need to stop for a rest, then I get to drive the ute for a week."

She felt his groan where her forearms rested on his shoulders. His VK Commodore ute was his baby. He'd bought it from Sue Clearwater just a couple of months earlier, after saving up for over a year. Paid for it in cash, too.

Bella grinned. "Not so confident now, huh?"

"Nah, I am. Driving the VK for a week but… I reckon I need to up the stakes."

"Yeah, well, you shoulda thought of that earlier," Bella said. "Can't change it now."

With a squeeze of her thighs, he started walking. "Fine. You're on, girl."

As it turned out, Edward could and did carry her the whole way home.

It had developed into an absolute scorcher of a day, probably edging close to forty Celsius. It took them over half an hour to get back to Bella's place, and by the time Edward stomped his way up the steps to the front door, they were both slick with sweat. Bella was conscious of the slip of his hands on her thighs, the sweat trickling down her back and gathering under her armpits and at her temples. She felt disgusting.

The front door of the Swan house was unlocked, despite the fact no one was home. Bella's parents had left early that morning for an appointment in the city and she didn't expect them home until late that afternoon.

Edward stepped inside and Bella slid off his back, tugging her shorts down over her sweaty thighs. The back of Edward's navy T-shirt was soaked almost black with sweat. He grimaced as he pulled it off in that _boy_ way—the way that's far sexier than it should be as they grip the shoulder of the garment and yank it over their heads.

He used the balled up shirt to wipe the sweat off his chest and the back of his neck.

"You reckon Garrett's left behind any clothes? Like an old shirt or something?"

"Uhh…" It had just occurred to Bella that they were in her house unsupervised, with no chance of being disturbed. And Edward was already half-naked.

She tugged him towards the bathroom. He looked puzzled as he lifted an arm and took a whiff. "I don't smell _that_ bad."

It was only when she'd pulled off her own T-shirt and was reaching back to unhook her bra that he got the picture.

"Oh," he said. "Yeah. Right. We should definitely clean up."

A few minutes later, Bella managed to get him to agree that showering together was close enough to her keeping her end of the bet—they were, after all, very naked and very wet.

"And, trust me," she said, sliding her hand down his soap-slick stomach, "there's no bloody way I'd do this in the river…"

* * *

><p>"Your shoe broked, Mummy," Alice says, dragging Bella back to the present. Three-year-olds have a gift for stating the obvious.<p>

"Broke. My shoe _broke_, yes." Bella kicks its unbroken partner off her right foot and tosses both thongs into the trolley.

"Is okay, Mummy." Alice's hand lands on Bella's cheek. "No cry. We can buy you new shoes!"

Bella smiles at her daughter. "I'm not crying." She kisses Alice's hand, then wipes the tears she just denied from her cheeks.

Alice purses her lips but doesn't argue. Rosie would. She'd fold her arms across her chest and stand her ground until Bella admitted that yes, she was crying. Rose would probably then work herself up, worrying about why it was her mummy was upset, until she, too, burst into tears.

But Alice (Hulk-smashing aside), is more like her father—emotionally reserved, and therefore content to allow others to dissemble.

Bella continues the grocery shopping, her cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment each time someone glances at her bare feet. She's sure they're judging her. A too-young mum with no shoes on—they all probably think she's a dero. A dole-bludging drain on the welfare system.

She should be used to it: the pursed lips and raised eyebrows, the nudges and mutters that pass between elderly couples. Disapproving looks and judgemental comments have been following her since her belly first swelled to accommodate Rose's growing body.

Edward used to laugh it off. He'd drape an arm across her shoulder and kiss her temple and say, "Who cares? Let 'em think what they want."

He'd pat her pregnant belly or hoist one of the girls onto his shoulders, depending on how big they were at the time. "We know we're happy. That's all that matters."

And maybe it's because she knows she's not happy—not completely—that it does matter to Bella now. Without Edward here, his face bright with that confident smile, she feels alone and very small. People's judgement—imagined or not—prickles at her like needles in a pin cushion.

She dislikes herself for it, too. _It's probably not very feminist of me_, she thinks, _to need my husband's support and validation so much._

So she holds her head up and she talks to Alice, a little louder than she needs to, about the cartoon characters used on cereal boxes to encourage children to pester their parents for sugar-loaded breakfasts.

On their way back to the car park, Alice points to the surf shop a few stores up from Coles. "You can get shoes, Mummy."

"Good idea." Bella manoeuvres the trolley through the racks of boardshorts and bikinis until they find a stand of Havaianas. "Which colour thongs should Mummy get, Allie?"

"Green! Like Hulk!"

Bella laughs. The teenaged guy behind the counter looks up and grins. His hair is bleached blond by the sun and looks stiff with salt. He probably came straight to work from his morning surf. Edward always claimed a taking a swim was as good as taking a shower; Bella always disagreed.

"Hmm. But I don't have many clothes that will go with green shoes. How about these black ones?"

Alice screws up her nose.

"Like Black Widow?" Bella suggests.

Alice points at a pair of deep purple thongs. "This ones. Like Hot Guy."

"Hot Guy?"

Alice nods. She mimes pulling a bowstring back and makes a "whoosh" noise as she releases her imaginary arrow.

"Hot Guy? Are you sure that's his name, Allie?" Bella doesn't know much about The Avengers; Alice used to watch the cartoons curled up on Edward's lap. These days, she watches them with Garrett, her faded and pilled Blanky in a bundle on her lap, her fingers never still as she rubs at the corner of the old muslin wrap.

"She might mean Hawkeye," says the teenager. He's wearing a faded Mambo t-shirt with a dog farting out a musical note on the front.

Alice beams at him. "Yes! Hot Guy!"

"Hawkeye thongs. Okay." Bella sorts through the thongs until she finds her size. "Purple, I can work with."

"Me, too, Mummy?"

Bella tilts her head as she looks at Alice. "You, too, what, honey?"

"I have Hot Guy shoes, too?"

Bella rubs a hand over her face, trying to calculate how much she has left in her bank account. Christmas hit her savings hard, but she's been getting great tips with the tourist season in full swing.

"Yeah. Okay. But we should get some for Rosie, too, then. What colour will she like?"

"Lallow," says Alice. She points at a pair of lemon-coloured thongs. "Like Wasp."

"Right. Wasp and Hawkeye thongs it is."

* * *

><p>"Good evening, Bella."<p>

Hearing Paul's soft greeting always makes Bella smile. When he told her he was holidaying with his family, she'd assumed he meant for a week or two. It turns out, they've rented a house overlooking the beach for three months.

"My brother-in-law says he's auditioning the town," Paul had told her. "He's been offered work here, but he wasn't sure how my sister and the children would like living here. It's a trial run."

Bella's found herself looking forward to the nights Paul comes in. He's usually here Fridays and Saturdays, early in the evening. He always leaves before the alcohol-soaked crowds get too rowdy.

"Milkshake?"

He shakes his head, lips twitching as he looks at his fingers where they're splayed on the bar. Bella thinks he'd be blushing if his dark complexion allowed it.

"Not tonight. Just a lemonade."

"No problem." Bella grabs the post-mix hose and fills a glass for him. She skips the ice—she knows he doesn't like it.

"It's quiet today," he says. He takes a sip of the lemonade as Bella counts out his change.

"Yeah." Bella tilts her head to catch a glimpse of the evening through the open doors. "Still pretty light out. It'll probably pick up once the sun goes down."

Paul nods. He's fiddling with a paper coaster, balancing it on the edge of the bar and then flicking it with the backs of his fingers so that it turns in the air before he catches it.

"There were still a lot of people on the beach," he says.

"Yeah? Did you go for a swim?" Bella is teasing him. She knows he thinks the locals are all crazy, swimming in the water he describes as "icy." He's from Juba, in South Sudan, which he tells her is the world's newest country, and even on the warmest days, she's only ever seen him wearing long pants.

He shakes his head, his smile growing. Bella likes to make him smile. She likes the way his eyes start smiling before his mouth decides to join in too.

Most of all, she likes the way his happiness chases away that haunted look she sometimes sees in his eyes. She's never asked him about it—she doesn't know if it'd be impolite to do so—but she can guess he's seen terrible, tragic things, things she can't even imagine. And yet here he is, a world away from the land of his birth, smiling around the straw in his glass of lemonade. Seeing him smile fills Bella with hope.

And, if she's being honest with herself, she also likes the attention he pays her. He seems to have a bit of a crush on her, and though she tells herself she's done nothing at all to invite or encourage it, she can't help but be flattered.

It's just nice, knowing that someone thinks she's kind of special.

* * *

><p>The New Year brings with it long, simmering days that start with blue skies and soaring temperatures and finish with house-shaking electrical storms. Night falls around horizon-splitting jags of lightning and angry rumbles of thunder.<p>

The storms don't last long enough, however, to shake the heat out of the day. The rain ceases by the time it's fully dark, leaving the air heavy and humid. Cicadas screech over the songs of happy frogs; the fertile thrum of nature is almost deafening.

Tonight, Bella can't sleep.

The noise, the oppressive humidity, the way her T-shirt sticks to her back and her thighs stick together, the way her hair is curling at her temples and against the back of her neck—it's driving her crazy.

She can't get comfortable. She rolls from her front to her back. Kicks the away the cotton sheet. Flips her pillow over.

The old oscillating fan beside her bed provides some relief, but at the cost of its _tick-tick-tick-whir_ as it moves its heavy head from side to side.

"Fuck." Bella peels her sticky thighs apart and tucks a pillow between them. The pressure creates an unexpected throbbing between her legs.

Her blood simmers. She rocks her pelvis once, twice. She swears again.

She squeezes her eyes closed, but it does nothing to hold back the barrage of sensation spilling from her memories.

Edward's hand, scalding as it slides down her thigh.

The coarse hair on his legs rasping against her skin as he pushes her thighs apart with his knee.

His lips on hers. His kiss hard and needy.

His breath, hot and humid against her neck.

Goosebumps rising on her skin as his tongue traces the curve of her breast.

It's been months. She kicks away the pillow. Slips her fingers into her underwear.

_It's been months for him, too_, she realises.

She imagines him in the shower. His hair dark. Water sliding down his cheeks. The muscles in his arm flexing. His other hand splayed against the tiled wall. His jaw clenching.

Her orgasm leaves her sweaty and tired, but she drags herself out of bed to take a cold shower.

The bed feels bigger when she climbs back in. Her wet hair soaks the pillow in proxy for the tears she's too exhausted to cry.

* * *

><p>A southerly buster rolls in two days later. The locals feel it coming and, even before it arrives, their relief is obvious in the waves that are a little more enthusiastic and the greetings that are a little more genuine.<p>

The sky is bruised with thick purple and black clouds as Bella walks to work. The breeze toying with the ends of her hair smells of salt and rain, and it makes her feel homesick. She misses the earthy smells of dust and eucalyptus, of dry bush, even that peculiar scent of sawdust and sweat that Edward would wear home from work.

She lingers on the footpath behind the hotel for a moment, listening to the muted shouts of laughter from inside. Beneath the human noise, she can hear the cawing of seagulls and the crashing of waves carried up from the beachfront.

She wonders if she'll grow used to the ocean's eternal roar, if she even wants to.

It has its good points, living so close to the sea. She likes spending the day on the beach with the girls, swimming and exploring the rock pools at the southern end. She likes the way her skin feels when the salt water dries, the way her hair falls in waves after she's been for a swim. She likes living so close to her brother, and she loves the girls seeing so much of their cousins.

But it's not home yet. And she's not sure if she wants it to be.

But then, can she and Edward go back to their home? Neither of them have work there; it would only be the closeness to their parents and the habits of twenty-five years that would draw them back. And maybe that's a bad thing. Maybe old patterns would be too easy to resume. Maybe the discomfort of settling somewhere new is just what they need.

A grey-green haze of cigarette smoke sweeps past. Bella barely has time to register the scent before the wind rakes the air around her clean again.

She looks up to see Sam leaning against the wall, the glowing end of his cigarette pointed at the ground.

"Do you actually smoke those?" she asks, moving to stand beside him. It seems he only takes in one or two lungfuls of smoke each time he lights up.

He shrugs. "Trying not to."

Bella nudges him with her shoulder. "I hear they're bad for you."

Sam's laugh is rough with decades of cigarette use and ends with a cough.

"My wife's been at me for years." He drops the butt, steps on it, then picks it up and puts it into his pocket. "I don't smoke at home. But at work…" He shrugs. "It's just a habit. Gives me something to do, you know?"

Bella doesn't know, but she can imagine. "Sure. So, put in your applications?"

A few weeks ago, Sam mentioned his desire to get his teaching degree to Jane and Bella. They've been encouraging him—to the point of nagging—to go for it.

He shakes his head. "It's all filled out. Going to mail it in the morning."

"Good."

"What's good?"

Jane's blonde head pokes out the back door. Tonight, she's wearing a shade of deep red lipstick that Bella wishes she had the confidence to pull off.

"Sam's mailing his uni application tomorrow."

Jane grins. She has a streak of vamp-red across her front tooth.

"Lipstick on your teeth," Bella tells her.

"Cheers." Jane rubs her teeth, her finger squeaking across the enamel, then shows them to Bella. "Better?"

"Yep."

"Sweet." Jane swings the door open wider and waves Bella inside. "I'm taking my break. It's pretty quiet so far."

As Bella closes the back door behind her, she can hear Jane bumming a smoke off Sam. She wraps the short black apron around her waist, checks her pocket for her bar-blade, and steels herself for another night of mixing drinks and counting change.

* * *

><p>A few days later, Bella is chopping vegetables for a stir-fry when her phone rings. It's a blocked number, and she hesitates for a moment, her finger hovering over the screen, before she answers.<p>

"Hello?"

"Bella."

His voice calls tears to the corners of her eyes.

"Hey. How are you?" She has to force the words around the lump in her throat.

She can hear the wry smile in his voice as he says, "Well, I'm allowed to use the phone now."

"That's great."

"Yeah. Only for twenty minutes but. And only after we're done for the day. So, like, after five-thirty."

"Okay."

There's a pause and Bella wonders if Edward feels the same way she does—like there's just too much to say. She doesn't know where to start.

"Will you come up?" Now that he's started the second phase of the program, Edward is allowed visits from family members.

Bella balances the phone between her shoulder and her ear. She picks up her knife and resumes slicing the capsicum. "You want me to?" She's not sure why she needs to hear him say it again.

"Of course."

"Then I'll come."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

Edward chuckles and the tension dissipates. She tells him about her day and the blanket fort the girls made in their bedroom this afternoon. He talks about the yoga and meditation he's taken up, the books he's been reading.

"I even did a painting the other day."

"Yeah? Is it any good?"

He laughs, and it's such an honest and happy noise that Bella's chest constricts.

"Nah, it's bloody awful, of course," he snickers. "I can imagine how I want it to look. Can't make it happen on the canvas but."

"Maybe you should try photography."

Edward only hums in response, but Bella makes a mental note to research cameras. Maybe she could give him one for his birthday. A hobby would be good for him, wouldn't it? And he'd probably have no trouble figuring out all the buttons and settings on one of those fancy ones like Katie uses.

"Hey, I've only got a few minutes left," he says. "Can I…"

She puts down the knife and calls out to the girls. "Alice! Rosie! Daddy's on the phone."

They come running, feet slapping against the kitchen tiles, and Bella puts the phone on speaker to circumvent an argument over who gets to talk to Daddy first. They all hear Edward tell them he loves them and that he misses them so much.

"When are you coming home, Daddy?" Rose asks.

"Soon, baby girl."

"Before I go to big school?"

Bella can hear the sadness in Edward's reply. "No. Not that soon."

"Oh."

The downward turn of Rose's lips makes Bella's heart ache.

"It won't be long after that," she tells her daughter. "Daddy's getting much better."

"That's true," Edward says. "Soon I'll be one hundred percent."

"What's one hundred peh-cent?" asks Rose

Alice answers. "It means he's all the way better."

Bella looks at the mobile phone sitting on the dining room table, exchanging a glance with it the way she would with Edward if he were standing here beside her. The smiling picture of her husband on the screen shows none of the concern or wonder she feels.

Edward's voice, however, is more responsive. "How'd you know that, Al?"

"From Tony Stark."

Bella chuckles; Edward doesn't.

"That's… that's heaps good, Allie," he says.

There's a weariness in his voice and Bella can imagine him scrubbing a hand over his face. She remembers that watching the cartoons together was Edward and Alice's "thing" and she feels a stab of pity for him.

It's complicated, though, by the flash of annoyance she feels. No one made him drink. He could be here, watching The Avengers with Alice, if he hadn't chosen to deal with the shitty hand he'd been dealt by drowning himself in beer and Bundy.

But would they be here?

Bella looks down at her piles of chopped carrot and broccoli and rubs her temples.

When her father had his accident, when a forklift mishap left him limping and unable to work, many of the people who passed through her parents' house brought meals and pieces of wisdom. _Everything happens for a reason. When one door closes, another one opens._

Bella was only sixteen as the time, but she always thought their words were a load of crap, weak platitudes handed out by people whose sympathy for her father was limited by the whispers of "worker's compensation" and "legal action" that blew through town.

But now, as she listens to Alice give Edward a blow-by-blow recount of an _Avengers Assemble_ episode in which her beloved Hulk gets "an-nesia," Bella wonders if there's a grain of truth in the very words she always found so useless.

She doesn't believe them entirely, doesn't believe there's some grand plan that was set in motion before her birth to bring her to a certain point in life. But it _is_ true that without the mistakes she and Edward have made, especially over the last twelve months, she wouldn't be where she is now. If he hadn't forced her hand with his drinking, she wouldn't be back on track with her studies, wouldn't be carefully saving her money, wouldn't be taking steps to secure the future she wants for her girls and herself.

If Edward's decline had been slower… Would they have been the proverbial frogs in the saucepan? Not realising their relationship, their future, was in danger until they'd already been scalded?

She gets so lost in her thoughts that she doesn't hear Edward tell the girls his twenty minutes is up. She looks from the lifeless phone on the table to her girls' pink-cheeked faces.

_I didn't even say goodbye_, she thinks.

But for some reason, that doesn't seem so bad.

_There's always tomorrow._


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks to Mag for being wonderful, to Hadley for the beta-love, and to you for reading and reviewing. Sorry I've been so lame at replying! Much love to you all._

* * *

><p><strong>To Her Door.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two, cont.<strong>

_I've not visited The Buttery. I'm taking some liberties here._

* * *

><p>"Hello, Bella."<p>

She pauses on the footpath behind the hotel, smiling at the sound of Paul's voice.

"Hey. How's it going?"

In the blue-tinted shadows creeping across the street, his skin looks the colour of graphite. Without the bar between them, he's taller than Bella realised. He's long and lean in his dark-wash jeans and button-down shirt. Bella smooths a hand over her stomach, self-conscious in the tight, black T-shirt with "The Seaview Hotel" embroidered over her left breast.

"Not too bad," he says. He pauses, as though evaluating the success of his use of the idiom. "Have you had a good day?"

Bella nods. "Yeah, it was all right. I took the girls to the beach this morning, and then we watched a movie together this arvo. Well, they watched it and I dozed off for a bit." She sighs. "Got a long shift tonight."

"Which film?"

"How to Train Your Dragon."

"It's good?"

"Yeah, it's really cute. We've watched it a few times now. The girls love it."

"I will tell my sister," he says. "Maybe my niece and nephew would like to watch it."

"How old are they?" Bella pulls the elastic from her hair then starts gathering it back up into a ponytail.

"Leah is five; Seth is seven."

Bella quickly plaits her hair and secures the ends with another elastic.

"I think they'd probably love it then," she says.

Paul leans against the white-painted wall, his hands in his pockets. "How to Train Your Dragon." He chuckles.

"Yep."

"Oh!" He lifts a hand to his forehead. His smile is full of remembered humour. "You know, Bella, I was listening to the radio the other day, and they were talking about the history of milkshakes and Milk Bars."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Did you know the Milk Bar is an Australian invention?"

Bella's plait bobs against her back as she shakes her head. She hasn't had it cut in months and it's almost waist-length now. "I would've guessed it was American."

"So did I. But the man being interviewed said the Milk Bar was invented in Australia by a Greek migrant* who based it on the American drug store soda bar."

"Really?" Bella isn't precisely sure what he's talking about; she has a vague image of women in poodle skirts drinking root beer floats on stools set on a black and white checkered floor.

"Yes. He opened a Milk Bar in Sydney in the 1930's. And then American soldiers who were here during the Second World War took the concept back to the U.S."

"Wow."

"But–" Paul scrunches his nose "they also said milkshakes used to be quite different. No ice cream."

He pauses and Bella asks the question he's waiting for.

"So what did they use?"

"Butter," he says. "Eggs, and also yeast. Amongst other things. The man on the radio said they originally marketed them as a health food."

"Gross." Bella shudders.

"This is what I was thinking, too. They had dried fruit and caramel and malt and chocolate in them, too." Paul grins. His teeth gleam in the fading light. "I am very glad the recipe has changed."

"Same. But you know–" She gives Paul a cheeky grin as she jerks a shoulder towards the hotel. "We use egg white for some of the cocktails. I could totally mix you up a traditional Aussie milkshake if you want."

"You are too kind."

"Yeah, I know." Bella covers a yawn with her wrist and then checks her watch. "Sorry, Paul. I really need to get in there."

Paul doesn't seem to hear. His gaze is still trained on her left hand. "I didn't realise you were married."

Bella bites down on her bottom lip as she nods. "Oh, yeah. My, uh, he's not in Seaview… Not yet."

"I didn't realise," Paul says again. He tips his head as he looks down at her. "You haven't spoken of him."

Bella's cheeks flush and guilt bubbles in her stomach. There's no accusation in Paul's tone, but if anything, that makes her feel worse. She never intended to omit Edward's existence and yet, she can't help wonder if she's never spoken of him because she's enjoyed Paul's interest in her.

"We're… We've been separated– apart, I mean, for a while." She speaks to Paul's shoes. Vans. Like the ones she bought Edward a few Christmases ago. "He's… He's not been well. He drinks– drank… too much."

She looks up and sees the concern in Paul's dark eyes. It should comfort her, but instead, it makes her close her lips on the words building in her throat. It's not him she wants to say them to.

She gestures to the back entrance of the hotel. "I should…"

"Of course." He takes a step back. "Have a good evening."

Bella pauses with her fingers wrapped around the door handle. "Are you coming in later?"

Paul runs a hand over the top of his head. "Yes," he says, after a moment. "But I think I will pass on a milkshake tonight."

* * *

><p>Bella's knee bounces as she listens to the announcement playing over the loudspeaker in the terminal. The second leg of her flight has been delayed for over an hour. She blows out a deep breath, as though it will help sweep away the thick, grey smoke that has settled over Sydney airport.<p>

She looks out the window. The SAAB 340 she's supposed to be boarding sits on the tarmac, bathed in that peculiarly eerie orange colour of sunlight filtering through bushfire smoke.

Worried she'll miss her boarding call when it eventually comes, Bella wraps her headphones around her iPod and shoves it back into her handbag. She tries to focus her attention on the novel she bought in the airport newsagent, but she keeps pausing every few pages to check the flight information boards. She's barely gotten through two chapters of _Gone Girl_ when a disembodied voice finally announces that the visibility has improved enough to allow departures to resume.

Bella eventually takes her seat beside a guy who looks about her father's age. His hair is more salt than pepper and the backs of his hands are mottled with sun spots. The arm that rests between them is marked with several neat scars; Bella guesses he's had melanomas removed.

He doesn't speak until the seatbelt light switches off. He unwraps his fingers from the arm rests and flexes them.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to this," he says. Bella isn't sure if he's talking to her or simply making the observation to himself.

"It's pretty unnerving," she says. "Especially in these little planes."

The aeroplane bobbles and bounces around as if to underline her point.

"You really feel everything." The giggle that slips from her mouth is pure nerves.

He nods, his gaze on the seat belt across his lap. He tightens it.

Bella thinks maybe she should distract him. "You holidaying in Byron?"

The guy puts his hands on his lap. The tendons in his wrists betray the grip he's got on his thighs.

"Something like that."

"Cool." Bella spares a glance at the clouds, spun like fairy floss beneath them. "Me, too."

Bella and her neighbour shift in their seats, moving away from each other to make room for the silence that settles between them.

From the window seat, Bella can't see many of the other passengers. She can hear the high-pitched voice of a small child a few rows behind her and she briefly regrets promising Edward that she wouldn't bring the girls with her. Alice would get a kick out of flying.

But then she imagines trying to wrangle both girls, plus their luggage, through the airport and onto the plane.

_When Edward's better, we'll fly somewhere for a holiday. Maybe the Gold Coast or something._

_When Edward's better_… Her whole life seems to dangle from that clause.

"I met someone."

She looks at the guy beside her, surprised. "Oh, um…"

"On the internet." He looks at her then, his watery-blue eyes brimming with self-doubt. "My kids think I'm a bloody idiot."

"No…" Bella doesn't really know what to say.

"My wife left me a few years ago," he says. "I got lonely."

"I can understand that." She can. She does.

"I joined up to one of those dating sites. Thought it would be a waste of time," he chuckles. "For the most part, it was."

"But you found someone…"

"Yeah." He rubs his nose with a knuckle. "Not exactly the someone I was looking for though."

"Oh?"

"I'm a bit of a Luddite. And the thing on my laptop–" He wriggles his fingers over an imaginary trackpad "–always messes up those drop down box thingies. So I somehow had my profile set to say I was interested in both men and women."

"Oh, dear."

"I got chatting to this guy and we just clicked." He shrugs. "I'm not gay, but we have a bit in common, you know?"

"Sure."

"He knows I'm not looking for anything romantic with him." His tone takes on a defensive edge, like he expects Bella to challenge his intentions. "We sorted that out quick-smart. But we kept in touch anyway. And he's invited me up, just to get out of the city for a bit, you know? I've been thinking of making one of those sea changes the shows on telly are always going on about, so Phil suggested I come stay with him for a few days."

"That sounds nice."

"Yeah." He nods. "Yeah, it is. He's a top bloke."

"And your kids are worried because you're going to stay with a virtual stranger?"

The guy looks at his hands. "That's what they say."

He doesn't sound like he believes it.

"I think they think I'm in the closet or something," he says. "They keep making comments about how they'll always accept me, no matter what." His sigh is almost silent, only noticeable in the slumping of his shoulders. "But you gotta understand, when my wife buggered off… Most of our friends were _her_ friends. Even the guys I golfed with—they were the husbands of her friends."

Bella tucks her hands under her thighs to stop herself from reaching over to squeeze his shoulder in sympathy. There's something so open and vulnerable about the guy, it's disarming.

"Our kids are in their twenties." He scratches the back of his neck. "They were already well out of home when Maggie bailed. We didn't have to fight over them or anything, you know? But our friends. That was a different story."

"She got custody of your friends."

He cracks a small smile. "Exactly."

The silence that slips between them now is softer, less uncomfortable.

"I'm Ben, by the way."

"Bella." She extends her hand and Ben shakes it.

"So what about you, Bella? You off to see someone you met on the internet, too?"

Bella chuckles. "Nah." She pulls her ponytail over her shoulder and combs her fingers through the ends. "I'm– My husband… He's been…" She blows out a breath and gives herself a little shake. "He's been in, um–" She lowers her voice "–rehab. I haven't seen him for over eight months."

Ben nods but doesn't say anything.

"I'm scared." Bella surprises herself when the confession slips out. She wants to snatch it from the air and cram it back down her throat.

Ben flexes his fingers where they rest on his thighs. His thumbs click. "Drugs?"

Bella shakes her head. "Booze."

"Ah. That's tough."

"Yeah."

"Was it court-ordered?"

"No." Bella traces the line of her eyebrow with a fingertip. She presses down hard, trying to chase away her looming stress headache. "He went voluntarily."

"Well, that's a good sign. A lot of alcoholics never admit they have a problem, let alone do anything about it." Ben smiles, but it's strained. "My brother," he says by way of explanation.

"I'm sorry."

He waves a hand, dismissing her sympathy. "You afraid he'll go back to drinking?"

"No." Bella frowns. She's considered the possibility, of course. She knows recovering alcoholics are just that—always recovering, never recovered.

She knows it means there are some things they'll probably never do again. Like sit on the back deck, cold beers in hand, as they watch the sunset bleed across the treetops. Or curl up on the couch with a bottle of red wine and a video. They'll never again have that tipsy, uninhibited sex Bella has always enjoyed so much. And they won't pop the cork off a bottle of champagne to celebrate when she finishes her degree.

She grieves those losses, but they're minor sacrifices in the face of having Edward healthy and whole and home.

"It's not that. It's just– It's been so long. And it feels like… like everything turns on this."

The plane gives a little lurch and Bella waits until the tendons in Ben's wrists relax before she continues.

"I guess I'm scared things will look different when he's sober. To him, I mean. And he'll realise he doesn't want…" Giving her fears voice, it's too much. Bella swallows hard and tries to keep her tears from spilling over.

She takes a deep breath and tries to keep her voice from wavering.

"Our youngest daughter is three. She's stopped asking when we're going to see him again. Just asks when he's going to call. That's how long it's been." She swallows again. Her mouth is so dry. Again, she's struck by the thought that she's having this conversation with the wrong person. "I really don't know what to expect," she says. The words sound lame.

Ben seems to understand she's trying to let the subject fade into the whir of the aeroplane engines and air-conditioning. He points at the novel poking from the top of her handbag and asks her if she's seen the film.

They make small talk until the plane starts its descent. Ben goes quiet then, his fingers wrapped around the arm rests and the tendons in his neck straining.

He groans softly as the wheels meet the tarmac and Bella notices his eyes are squeezed closed.

"We're here," she tells him.

He nods and takes a deep breath before opening his eyes.

"Sorry about that."

Bella waves away his apology. "Don't be."

They don't speak again as they gather up their carry-on luggage and await the instruction to deplane.

They're walking across the tarmac towards the terminal, the summer sun glaring from every angle, when Ben nudges Bella's arm.

"Good luck, Bella."

She smiles. "To you, too."

* * *

><p><em>Addiction Is Not A Consequence Of Choice, Recovery Is.<em>

Bella frowns at the words. They're printed in a simple grey font, stretched out beneath the picture of a sunrise. At least, she thinks it's a sunrise. It would be, wouldn't it? Representing a new day dawning in the resident's life? Though it could be a sunset. Maybe it symbolises the sun setting on addiction.

She saw the same words on The Buttery's website when she checked it out last week in preparation for her visit. At first, she'd felt a sort of shoulder-stiffening, tongue-clucking indignation. How could they say that? Edward made the choice to drown his sorrows in alcohol. It was his hand that brought each mouthful of liquor to his lips. So why should he not be held responsible for it?

She started to read a bit online after that. Trying to understand addiction and alcoholism, and what it will mean for Edward to fight the demon he succumbed to for so long. But it's only now that she's here, perched on the edge of a cane chair as she waits for someone to tell Edward that she's arrived, that she can see the truth in the statement. Here, in the place where Edward has surrendered his freedom to unlearn those behaviours, she's starting to understand what it's saying.

Edward didn't set out to become an alcoholic. No one ever does.

He picked a bloody stupid way to cope, self-medicating himself into a kind of numbness that meant he didn't have to confront the reality of his joblessness—what he perceived as his failure. But the slope from "This is too hard; I need a beer," to full-blown alcoholism is a slippery one. Edward lost his footing somewhere along the line and tumbled, scraped and bruised, into an addiction he'll now have to fight off for the rest of his life.

Can he do it? Keep making that choice to recover?

And can she stand beside him as he does?

Her thoughts scatter as the man in question appears before her.

He pauses a few metres away and tugs his hand through his hair. It's shorter than she's seen it in years. Darker, too, with the sun-bleached ends sheared off.

Her gaze swoops over him as she gets to her feet. She's trying to see everything at once, the changes as well as the pieces of him that are the same.

He's thinner, much leaner than he was when she saw him last. What was it, eight or nine months ago?

He's always been tall and strong, and the manual labour at the mill and all the beer he was drinking had bulked him up, both in musculature and the rounding of his belly. He looks a different sort of strong now. His muscles are defined but no longer bulky. His stomach is flatter, his shoulders and chest narrower but still square.

She lifts her gaze to meet his eyes. That shade of eucalyptus green. As familiar to her as her own reflection. They're no longer rimmed red with alcohol abuse and fatigue. His skin is that sun-kissed golden colour that speaks of good health, time spent in the sun, and plenty of rest.

He looks… great.

Bella looks down and smoothes her hands over her dress. She's suddenly too-aware of the extra five or six kilos she's carrying, the dress size she's gained in the last year.

In every novel she's read, the women under stress seem to always lose weight. They lose their appetite or forget to eat; they waste away. Other characters notice, they comment on how "wan" and "fragile" she's become.

No one ever writes about the woman who stands at the kitchen sink, finishing the leftover pasta bake on her daughter's plate because she can't bear to scrape it into the bin, not when she's worked so hard not just to prepare it, but to afford the damn groceries in the first place. They never write about the woman who eats half a packet of Tim Tams without even noticing what she's doing, as she sits in front of her laptop, working on an assignment into the early hours of the morning.

No. In fiction, women shrink under pressure. Their bodies are just another device in the writer's tool kit, used to show on the outside what's happening on the inside.

And as Bella runs her hands over her stomach that's a little less flat, her hips that are a little more round, her thighs that are little fuller, she feels betrayed by her body. She's walked and swam, and played with the girls, chased after them until she was breathless and sweaty. She's spent hour after hour on her feet behind the bar, her calves aching. She's felt stretched thin and like she was fading at the edges. And yet her body has continued to flourish, to swell with good health.

Even as her insecurity flares, so does her irritation. _Is this who I am now?_ she wonders. A woman preoccupied by her physical appearance. Who, even after months and months of demonstrating her strength and capability as she juggled children, work, and study, feels somehow less worthwhile because she's gained five kilos?

She straightens her shoulders and lifts her head. She looks Edward in the eye.

One side of his mouth curves up in a smile she knows well. One she's been missing for longer than they've been apart.

"You look–"

"You–"

They both laugh. Bella scrunches her toes against the rubber soles of her Hot Guy thongs.

"You go first," Edward says. Bella can feel his gaze heavy on her skin.

She scrapes her teeth across her bottom lip.

"You look really good. So… Are you– How– What are you–" She shakes her head, as though that will help her sift through all the words crowding her throat.

"Hey." Edward takes the two steps that closes the space between them. His hands land on her hips and his fingers twist into the cotton fabric of her dress.

Bella has barely managed to lift her head to look up at him before he kisses her. It's hesitant, his lips landing on the corner of her mouth, and it tells her everything. He wants more but doesn't know if it will be welcomed. He's leaving it up to her to take what she wants.

So she does.

She wraps her arms around his waist and pulls him close, pressing her body against his and standing on her toes as she chases his lips with hers. She slides one arm around his neck and pulls his mouth back to hers. She pours everything she's feeling into the kiss. Trying to tell him without words how much she's missed him, how hard it's been without him, how often she's thought _I wish Edward was here._

They're both breathing hard when he pulls away. He squeezes her shoulders and presses another kiss to her forehead.

"I'm sorry." He mumbles the words against her temple. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Bella knows she needs to pull away, that they need to talk, thrash out where they've been and where they're going, but she allows herself another minute in his arms first. She can feel his heartbeat, thumping through his chest and into hers.

His arms fall to his sides as she steps back. He jerks a shoulder towards the glass doors she came in through.

"Let's… We'll go for a walk?"

"Okay."

As they step outside, Bella reaches for Edward's hand. His palms are softer than she remembers. She catches the small smile playing on his lips as he looks down at their interlocked fingers.

She expects him to give her a tour of the facility, so she's surprised when he leads her instead to a patch of light-dappled grass beneath a towering angophora. She doesn't know who pulls away from whom, but by the time they're sitting down, they're no longer touching.

"You drive up?"

Bella shakes her head. "Flew into Ballina and caught a taxi out."

He whistles between his teeth. "Cost a lot?"

"What's it matter?" She flinches even as she spits the words out. "I earned every cent."

"That's not– I didn't mean…"

"I know." Bella squeezes her eyes closed and shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just…"

"Angry."

"No."

"It's okay if you are. I deserve it."

"I'm glad I have your permission." She slides her fingers into her hair and massages circles against her scalp.

"That's–"

She looks up to see Edward shaking his head. He offers her half a smile.

"I don't really know what to say." He squints as he looks up at the canopy overhead. The light filtering through the leaves shimmers on his face as though it's passing through water to reach him. "You have the right to feel whatever you feel, Bella. I'm not– It's not that I think you need my permission. I'm just trying to… affirm you."

"Affirm?" Bella bites down on her bottom lip.

He snickers and she releases her smile.

"New addition to my vocabulary," he says. "Did I pull it off?"

"Almost."

A breeze sweeps across the lawn, swaying the gnarled and twisted branches of the angophora. Bella squints as lights flashes into her eyes.

Distaste pulses through her. For this place, with its sand-coloured buildings and carefully-tended grounds, the tasteful blandness of it all. She's irritated by Edward's psychobabble words and the thought that he's probably had pretty, soft-voiced therapists pandering to him as they ask, "How did that make you feel?" Maybe they listened to him talk about how she'd left him, taking his daughters with her, and wondered how she could've been so cruel.

She weighs the words on her tongue before she lets them fly. "I met this guy."

Edward flinches._ Bullseye_.

"Is that– Did you come here to tell me… that you've moved on?" He rips up a few blades of grass and tosses them into the breeze.

"No." Bella pushes her fingertip along her eyebrow again. Her head is pounding now. Her emotions a jumble. She wanted to make him hurt and she succeeded.

"I… He's just this guy who comes into the bar a few times a week. He's friendly is all." She watches a green ant hurrying across the grass, its antennae waving. How many times did she end up with one of those red, raised welts on the backs of her thighs during high school? Between the green ants and bindiis, sitting on the oval was like sitting on a minefield.

"What are you trying to tell me, Bel?"

"I am angry."

"And this guy…?"

"Nothing." She chases away an imaginary fly with a flap of her hand. "I chat with him a bit. I just– I'm being a bitch. I wanted to make you jealous and I wanted to hurt you."

Edward doesn't look surprised.

"It didn't make me feel any better."

He smiles a little as he shakes his head. "It wouldn't. You're not… You never were someone who enjoys hurting people."

"I don't want to be that person. But I feel like I'm going to burst." Bella pushes on her chest. "There are all these… feelings jammed in here, and I can't make sense of them."

Edward's hand is warm on her thigh. "Tell me. Just pick one and go from there."

So she does.

She tells him how angry she is that he picked such a destructive way of dealing with his sacking. How hard it's been for her, juggling the kids, work, and uni. "I needed you," she says. "And I hate– I don't hate you, Edward, but I've hated being on my own. I resent it. And I didn't even realise how much until just now."

Edward doesn't interrupt as she pulls each thread free of the tangle in her chest and chases it to its end. She talks about Christmas and how much her mother's gossiping hurt her. How wonderful Garrett and Katie have been. "I'm not sure I would've have coped without them. Especially not at first."

She talks about the times she lay awake in the dark, lonely and frightened, until she eventually got up and brought the girls, still sleeping, into her bed. She tells him about the lame pick-up lines and the abuse and the condescension she deals with behind the bar, how small some people can make her feel. She tells him about Jane and Sam and Paul. About the feminist blogs she's been reading.

And she tells him about their girls. Alice's Hulk obsession and how well she's doing at her swimming lessons. "She's our little fish. You should see her; she's a natural."

"And Rose," she says. "You should hear her read, Edward. She's so clever. And, oh, my God, she is so excited to school start next week. She tried on her uniform so many times, it was starting to drive me crazy."

Much of what she tells him, she's told him over the phone. But so much of it, she'd edited, aware that girls were listening or that their time was limited. Now, she talks and talks until her throat feels scraped raw and the knot in her chest has loosened.

"I've missed this," she says. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Edward says, but Bella doesn't seem to hear him.

"The thing is, though… I've coped. It sucked heaps, but I did it. I'm doing it." She holds up a finger to keep him from interrupting. There's a new thought growing in her mind, and it bursts open like an angophora blossom popping from its cap. "I don't… need you, Edward. As hard as it has been, as it would be, to raise the girls on my own, I could do it."

She watches the way Edward curls his fingers into the grass, the way he looks at her, fear darkening his eyes. A patch of light plays on his cheek, winking and dancing as the leaves above them are shaken by the wind.

"I may not need you," she says, her voice gentler now, "but, God, I want you."

It will be hard work, putting the pieces of their family back together. She has to learn how to let him in and trust him again. She has to see he's truly learned new ways of coping with the hurdles life will undoubtedly throw in their path. She has to figure out what it will mean to forgive him—and keep forgiving him.

Edward makes a sort of choking noise. His knuckles turn white as he holds the grass like he needs help anchoring himself to the ground. His mouth moves but no words come out.

"I want you to come home," Bella tells him. "I want to wake up and you be the first person I see. I want you to see the girls grow up. I want you to teach them how to ride their bikes and to build them another cubby house. I want you to put your foot down when they're being cheeky and kiss their knees when they fall over. I want their dad back. And I want my husband back."

Adam's apple bouncing in his throat, Edward swallows hard. He blinks a few times, his face tipped towards the sky. Bella waits, her heart laid out on the grass between them, for him to find his voice.

When he finds it, it's gruff with the tears he's keeping at bay.

"I want that, too."

* * *

><p><em>*true story. Joachim Tavlaridis (aka Mick Adams) opened the first milk bar in 1932. It was in Martin Place. You can google it. (You see what I did there?)<em>


	6. Chapter 6

_Hadley Hemingway has been a wonderful help to me, in writing and in life. Thank you, lovely._

_MagTwi78 - Enjoy, my friend!_

* * *

><p><strong>To Her Door.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part Three.<strong>

_Did they have a future? Would he know his children? / Could he make a picture and get them all to fit?_

* * *

><p>Again, I'm taking liberties with my descriptions of The Buttery.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Dear Bella,<em>

_I forgot to tell you on the phone before, but Mum is thinking about coming to visit. I don't reckon she will, but not unless she can get Dad to come. It's too long a drive for her to do on her own. And Dad, well, he's made it pretty clear what he thinks about me being in here. Last time I spoke to him, he told me I didn't have a problem, other than that the women in my life kept telling me I had a problem. "You put food on their table, a roof over their heads, and you come home every night, don't you? Then you deserve to have a drink without being nagged about it." _

_Don't feel bad about that, okay? He's full of shit. And I've realised, thinking about some of the things we've talked about, that he's a complete misogynist. _

_I've been doing a bit of reading on that, by the way. Feminism, I mean. Given me a bit to think about._

_Hey, do you remember Mrs. Crowley? She'd find it pretty bloody hilarious that our main method of communication these days is through letters. _

_I ran into her once, did I ever tell you that? Nah, I probably didn't, actually, because I was up at the Centro paying a lay-by installment on your engagement ring. She was pretty much the only person who didn't ask me if you were up the duff when I said I was going to ask you to marry me. Said she always thought there was something special about us as a couple. I don't know if she was just being nice. I like to think she was serious. I mean, she never had much of an issue putting me in my place when it was necessary. Which is what I was just thinking about. She used to write the funniest comments on my creative writing assignments. I remember one year, maybe it was Year 7 or 8, and in the Yearly, I wrote some story about an alien virus that messed with people's sense of smell and made everything gross smell nice and everything nice smell gross. So the people went around eating rotting food and all kinds of shit. Literally. (Come on, I was 13.) Mrs. Crowley left comments the whole way down the page, like "Gross," "Disgusting," and "Utterly repulsive." And then, at the bottom, she wrote this comment about how my writing was very imaginative and detailed. Too detailed, because she'd almost vomited a few times. And then she wrote, and I remember this heaps well, she'd written, "But then again, the nausea may have induced by the sheer effort I have had to put into deciphering your handwriting." I think she wrote in my report that year something like, "Edward could be the next Tim Winton, but we'll never know because his handwriting is truly appalling."_

_Anyway, I was thinking about how proud she'd be of how neat my writing is getting with all this practice. She'd see it as a silver lining or something, right? Maybe she'd be impressed that I now actually know who Tim Winton is, too. I really liked "Breath." I reckon you'd like it, too, Bel. The way he writes about the ocean reminds me of you, and how you talk about it. I'd like to see you by the ocean again. I know you said you get homesick for the bush, but maybe we could try life on the coast together for a while. There's no real reason for us to move back to town, is there? Unless you'd rather be closer to your parents again?_

_I'm not sure what I'll do exactly. Maybe I could just get a job labouring for a while. I'll have to look into it. I've been thinking about getting a trade, or even going back to TAFE to get my HSC. I kind of like the idea of going to uni, but that might have to wait for a while. Maybe once you've finished your degree. We'll have to talk about it._

_Give the girls a big cuddle for me._

_Love you heaps,  
><em>_Edward_

* * *

><p><em>Dear Bella,<em>

_Thanks for the pictures of Rose. She looks so grown up and I can't believe she's started school already. I'm pretty cut up about not being there to walk her to her classroom and then pick her up from her first day. I know I don't really have the right to be upset. I made a bunch of shitty choices and the consequences keep biting me in the arse. _

_I remember the day you told me you thought you were pregnant, and then a few hours later, holding your hand and waiting for the pregnancy test result. You were squeezing my hand so hard I thought you'd hurt yourself. I couldn't decide what I hoped it would be. We were so young, and I knew that most of the sacrifices that would have to be made would be yours. I guess I was worried you'd come to resent it later on. Is that irony? That I worried so much about that, then went and fucked up so bad that I gave you no choice but to resent me? I'm so sorry, Bel. So sorry._

_I remember holding her for the first time, too. I don't think I've ever been so scared as when the midwife handed her to me, all wrinkly and smeared with blood and gunk. But then she opened her eyes and I fell in love for the second time in my life. _

_Do you remember falling in love? That sounds kind of lame, doesn't it? Like I'm being all insecure and asking you to reassure me. I'm not. I was just thinking about it, because falling for you was so different to falling for our Rosie. That was instantaneous, you know? But with you, it was like… by the time I realised I was in love with you, I'd probably already been in love with you for months. The feelings were there for ages before I could name them. _

_I've got to finish this now if I want to mail it today. I'll write again soon._

_Love you,  
><em>_Edward_

* * *

><p><em>Dear Rosie,<em>

_Thank you so much for the card, sweetheart. I love it. _

_Your writing is so neat, big girl. I reckon it's almost as good as Mum's. She's always had beautiful writing. I used to sit next to her in class and I liked to watch her write. I always wished my books were as neat as hers. Ask her about it and she'll tell you it's true. _

_I'm really happy to hear that you're loving going to school, and that you have such a good teacher. Will you tell me about your friends? There's Makenna and Emily and Charlotte, right? Maybe you could draw me a picture._

_Mum says you're getting so great at reading, and that you like to read to Alice at night. That's fantastic! When I come home, I hope you'll read me lots of stories, too._

_Be good for Mummy, okay? She says you're such a good helper, and that makes me really happy. I love you and I miss you so much._

_Love,  
><em>_Dad._

* * *

><p><em>Dear Alice,<em>

_I love the picture. Thank you! _

_I see Mum is dressed as Hawkeye, and Rosie is Wasp, and I'm Captain America. You must've remembered he's my favourite, right?_

_So that must be you, dressed up as The Hulk. You look so strong and fierce. I bet you could save everybody._

_Mum told me she thinks you might be a mermaid in disguise. She said you're the best swimmer she's ever seen. Make sure you keep doing good listening for your teacher, okay?_

_Give Mum and Rosie a big kiss for me. I miss you._

_Love,  
><em>_Dad._

* * *

><p><em>Dear Bella,<em>

_I love you._

_I don't think I told you that enough. Before, I mean. Writing all these letters, reading all of yours, I guess it's made me realise how powerful words are, how much they mean. _

_What is it that you used to say to the girls when they were heaps little and they were getting frustrated… "Use your words?" Maybe if I'd learnt to use my words better I could've avoided this._

_I know "could haves" are pretty useless, that hindsight is 20/20 and all that, but I hope I'm not too dumb to learn from my mistakes. _

_So, yeah._

_I love you._

_Edward_

* * *

><p>Before he came to The Buttery, Edward hadn't used, or even seen, a public payphone in ages. He didn't know they still existed. Even landlines were becoming rare now that everyone has mobile phones and mobile broadband.<p>

For many years there had been a payphone standing, like a battered and bruised sentry, outside the newsagency back home. But then Telstra had taken it away, probably when he was still in primary school. It had cost more to constantly replace the shattered glass and scrub off the texta drawings of dicks and love hearts than the phone company would've ever made from people actually placing phone calls.

Here, though, there is a bank of three payphones around the corner from the reception desk. They're cocooned by tinted glass barriers and separated by huge pots of the dark green snake plants favoured by medical practices. It almost feels private—unless other people are on the phones, or are waiting to use them (which is almost always, given that the window of time in which residents are allowed to use them is pretty narrow).

It's surprisingly quiet this evening, though. There's only one person here—a woman using the phone furthest from Reception. Edward can't see her face, just her long blonde hair in its intricate braid as she leans against the wall, her voice a murmur in the empty corridor.

Edward steps up to the first phone, leaving an empty booth between himself and the blonde woman, picks up the handset, and dials Bella's number. At least he doesn't have to try and scrape up the coins he'd need to place the call; it's all billed to his account. He'll be settling that account in less than a week, a fact which both thrills and terrifies him.

"Hello, Rose speaking."

Edward chuckles at the seriousness in his eldest daughter's voice.

"Good evening, Rose," he says, mimicking her polite tone, "how are you, young lady?"

"Daddy!" Her shriek has him flinching away from the phone.

"Hi, bab– big girl."

"Did you almost call me a baby again, Daddy?"

Edward shakes his head, smirking. She's whip-smart, his elder daughter. "You caught me," he says. "I keep forgetting how grown up you are now."

"Mummy says I'll be taller than her by Christmas," Rose giggles. "I don't think I can grow that fast. Maybe when I'm 10."

"Maybe."

He talks to both girls about their days, and even though he misses them both like crazy, he's smiling when Alice reluctantly agrees to put Bella on. "I tell you about Wasp tomorrow," she says.

"Okay. I can't wait."

Bella's laughter slides into his ear. "You get a blow-by-blow of today's episode?"

"You know it."

"She's a crack up."

"She is." Edward is caught of guard by the rush of emotion. He swallows down the lump in his throat. "I can't wait to see them."

He can hear Bella's smile in her voice. "They're so excited, Edward."

He hesitates, uncertain about how to proceed. It's one more humiliation on his long list of regrets, having to ask Bella for the money to get his arse to Seaview.

"Bel, I hate to ask…"

"What do you need?"

"It's… Um. Well, I…" He blows out a breath and the words follow in a rush. "I hate to ask, but I have to settle the phone bill and the rest of my account when I leave, and I'm just not sure how much I'm going to have so I was wondering if you'd be able to transfer me some money so I can book a ticket out of here." Although Edward is still receiving payments from Centrelink, eighty percent of what he gets is taken by The Buttery. It probably doesn't cover much of what it actually costs to keep him here—the centre relies pretty heavily on donations and government funding. It does, however, mean that he doesn't have a lot of money to his name.

"Oh, no problem," she says. He can hear in her voice that it really isn't a problem—she doesn't mind at all. She still sounds cheerful and excited as she tells him she'll do a bank transfer right now. He hears her fingers tapping across a keyboard.

"Or do you want me to just book you a flight?" she says.

"Um…"

She's hurrying to explain herself before he's even had time to consider the suggestion. "It's not that I don't trust you with the money. I just thought– I figured it might be easier, because I can do it online, you know? But if you want me to transfer the money and book it yourself, that's fine, too."

Edward scratches the back of his neck and shifts his weight to his left foot. He lifts his right one and rubs it against his left calf to chase away an itch. He can't wait to get out of this place.

"That'd be better, actually. If you can book me a flight for Sunday. And then, um, if you could send me a little to cover the taxi… Or if you'd rather, you can pay him when I get there."

"No, no," she says. The clattering of computer keys pauses. "I'll book your ticket, but I'm happy to send you something for the fare and food and stuff while you're travelling."

"Great." Edward looks up at the off-white ceiling and sighs. "I'm sorry to be a nuisance."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bella says. There's a sharpness in her tone that reminds Edward of just how much she's changed in the last few months. He's hesitant to say she's grown up, because that would imply something in her was lacking. There's definitely a new confidence in her, though. He'd had a sense of it as they spoke over the phone, but her visit in January really cemented it for him. His wife has blossomed—but he wasn't around to see it happen.

She sighs and her breath crackles along the phone lines and into his ear. "Please don't apologise. I knew you wouldn't have a lot of money and I budgeted for it. And even if I hadn't… You're worth it, Edward. I don't care what it costs. I want you here. As soon as possible. I'd come and pick you up myself, but I just can't manage it between work, the girls, and this bloody assignment."

Edward is momentarily speechless as he tries to process everything she's just told him. He doubts that either he or Bella had ever used the word "budgeted" before he came to The Buttery. They didn't live extravagantly, but even when he lost his job and they were making do with his Newstart allowance, they never really put that much thought into their finances. They did without when they had to, and made do with what they had. So hearing Bella talk about budgeting, he's filled with both respect and dismay. He's proud of her competence, but he also regrets being the reason she's showing it.

"Thank you." He wonders if she realises he's thanking her for so much more than his plane ticket.

"Of course."

Edward glances at the clock, a simple analogue one with squat, black hands. The type found in schools and hospitals everywhere, the second hand always obnoxiously loud as it stomps its way around the face. "I should…" He doesn't want to hang up.

Bella seems to understand.

"It's okay, babe. Go. Soon we'll have heaps of time to catch up properly." There's just a hint of suggestiveness in the way she drags out the word_ properly_. Edward swallows a groan.

"I miss you."

There's a smile in her voice. "Not for much longer."

"Love you, Bel. I– um…"

"Yeah?"

He wants to ask if she's sure. If she really, honestly, wants him home. If she understands just how hard it's going to be—for both of them, but mostly for her—with him back in her life, carrying more baggage than an airport carousel.

"You there?" She sounds worried.

"Yeah. Yeah, I just– Thanks, Bel. Really. I love you so fucking much."

"I love you, too. Talk soon."

Edward waits for Bella to hang up, and just before the call disconnects, he hears her muffled call for the girls to come set the dinner table. He replaces the receiver and stands in place for a moment. The blonde woman has gone; he hadn't noticed her leave.

His thonged feet squeak on the linoleum floors as he heads back toward his room. Gold-tinged light pools on the floors beneath the windows. Edward changes his mind, turning back down the corridor and making his way towards the main doors.

The early evening is soft and warm, the breeze fingering his hair is scented with eucalyptus, mown grass, and the slight sweetness of impending rain. Edward wanders through the grounds, ignoring the concrete footpaths that snake across the lawns. He moves aimlessly, but is unsurprised when he finds himself standing beneath the sprawling angophora he and Bella had sat under on her visit.

He's not particularly into the whole communing with nature gig that seems to work for many of the people here, but since Bella's visit, he's found comfort in sitting out here, his back against the mottled and sap-streaked trunk. He can still see her here, sitting opposite him, her legs crossed kindergarten-style, the wind catching strands of her dark hair and ruffling the skirt of her dress. She's fidgeting, ripping out blades of grass and tying back her hair only to tug it loose again.

The way she ran her hands over her thighs and smoothed down her dress that day, he could tell she was feeling self-conscious. He'd wanted to tell her not to be, that he liked the way she looked, rounder and softer and somehow more… _ripe_. He hadn't though.

Because he'd paid careful attention to the things Bella had been talking about, and he thought that his assurances might have boosted her confidence at the time, but she'd probably have berated herself for it later. She'd want her self-worth to be exactly that—something rooted in her own beliefs about herself.

It's a subject he's been hesitant to bring up for other reasons, too. Because while Edward would love nothing more than to walk through the front door on Sunday evening, strip his wife out of her clothes, and show her, repeatedly, how much he loves her, how much he desires her, he's not sure where they stand on that. He doesn't want her to think that's the only thing he's missed, and he doesn't know how to bring it up.

It's been almost a year. Has she been with anyone else? The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He doesn't think she has, but could he blame her if she had? Does he even have the right to ask her about it?

He's the idiot who checked out on her.

It was selfish, really. Cowardly. When things got tough, he'd bailed, dived headfirst into a bottle of booze and the comfortable numbness he found there. Sure, he didn't physically leave, but he might as well have. For months after he got the boot at the mill, he was either drunk or hungover. It's a big blur in his memory, that time, overlaid with the rancid aftertaste of stale beer, vomit, and shame.

Edward draws his legs up and rests his forearms on his knees. _Can't change the past_, he reminds himself. _What matters is what I do now. Keep choosing to get better._

He just hopes his "better" will be enough for Bella.

He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd moved on. If she'd decided she couldn't forgive him for succumbing to his addiction, for leaving her to live as a single mum for almost a year. She'd assured him, though, that she wanted him to come home.

"You're worth it." She'd said that just now. "I want you here."

He recalls the flirtatious edge that crept into her voice. "We'll have heaps of time to catch up _properly_ soon."

Heat pools in his stomach and Edward blows out a shaky breath. He'll take that as an encouragement. They have a lot to work out, but he reckons they'll get there. He leans his head back against the angophora trunk and closes his eyes. The wind runs gentle hands across his skin, raising goosebumps and standing every nerve on edge.

A wave of homesickness crashes over him. He needs to get out of this place. He knows he isn't cured, that alcoholics never are. He knows he'll be fighting a constant battle, always recovering, never recovered. He'll have to choose, every bloody day, to not drink. It'll be hard. And the thought of failure, and everything that would cost him, is completely terrifying.

But it's time. Time to start his life again.

He's ready to go home.

* * *

><p><em>texta = markerSharpie_  
><em>up the duff = pregnant<em>

_Thanks for reading! Shell x_


	7. Chapter 7

_Hadley Hemingway is all kinds of amazing, and her help is very much appreciated.  
><em>_MagTwi loves cricket as much as I do, and is basically one of the loveliest ladies around.  
><em>_Thanks heaps to everyone who is reading and reviewing. _

* * *

><p><strong>To Her Door.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part Three, cont.<strong>

_He was shaking in his seat, riding through the streets / In a silvertop, to her door._

* * *

><p>When Edward finally falls into the backseat of the taxi, he's wondering if he'll ever know what being dry feels like again. There were dark clouds gathered over Sydney airport as he awaited his connecting flight; by the time he landed in Moruya, the heavens had opened. Fat drops of rain pummelled his face as he dived into a silver taxi idling at the kerb.<p>

The rain makes branch-like streams on the car's windows, pushed around by the wind and the speed of the car. Steam rises from the dark, unfamiliar streets as Edward is carried towards his new life. Some pop song he's never heard before is playing on the radio, beneath that he can hear the sticky noise of tyre rubber on wet road. Edward's stomach clenches as he wonders, again, if he's really as ready for this as he thought. Is he ready to be let loose in the real world? Out here there are pressures, responsibilities, temptations. Shit he'll have to face up to without the sweet numbness he used to find at the bottom of a bottle of Bundaberg Rum.

The taxi smells of peppermint, tobacco, and something garlicky that reminds him of still-drunk, late-night kebabs. Edward shifts in his seat, trying to unstick his T-shirt from his back. A drop of water rolls from his hairline to his chin; he doesn't know if it's rain or sweat. The itch in his throat would be soothed by an ice cold schooner of beer—a luxury he can never again allow himself.

He digs through his backpack and pulls out the bottle of water he bought at the airport. He drains the half-full bottle in one go. The water is lukewarm now, but it does the job.

The green-lit clock on the dash reads 9:17. Though Edward knew he'd be getting in well after the girls' bedtime, he's still disappointed that he won't see them until tomorrow morning.

"This rain's pretty hectic, 'ey?"

Edward looks up, momentarily meeting the cabbie's gaze in the rearview mirror. "Yeah. The humidity's unreal."

"Yeah. Heaps different to last week." The driver shakes his head. "Bushfires to this."

Edward grimaces. Bella had mentioned there were a couple of fires burning nearby, but she'd made it seem like they were under control, no real threat. "They get close?"

The cabbie glances in the rearview mirror. "Close? To where, mate?" He must remember the address Edward gave him because he says, "Oh. To Seaview? Nah."

He waves his left arm, an expansive sweep that Edward thinks is meant to take in the distant blur of lights twinkling through the rain-soaked window. "Stayed west of the highway." He shakes his head, muttering something about how even nature seems to have it in for the people who can least afford it.

Edward can't think of anything to say; they continue on in silence.

At a red light, the driver grabs a filthy cloth—it looks like a balled-up old T-shirt—and swipes at the foggy windscreen. In the backseat, Edward does the same thing, clearing the window with his forearm. He squints out into the night, trying to get his bearings.

"You been to Seaview before, bro?" In the taxi driver's mouth, the word _bro_ slides towards _brew_.

"Nup."

"Nice place. You come for a holiday?"

The light switches to green and Edward is pressed back into his seat as the driver accelerates. "Nah. My wife and kids are here."

"You been away for work or something, 'ey?"

"Something like that."

"You work in the mines? Good money there. Been thinkin' 'bout trying to get a job driving a truck up there. You know anyone who could hook me up?"

Edward chuckles. "Sorry, mate. I wasn't working in the mines. I hear there's still heaps of jobs but."

"Yeah. True, true. But you gotta live up there, 'ey? Near Townsville or something. Lots of mining up there."

"Dunno." Edward shoves a hand through his damp hair. It's getting longer again, and he wonders if he should've gotten it cut; he doesn't want Bella to think him a lazy slob.

"From what I hear," Edward says, his gaze still on the rain-splattered window, "there's stuff happening all over the shop. I got a cousin who lives in Cairns—he's a boilermaker—and he gets flown in and out. Somewhere in the Gulf of Carpentaria, I think it is. He works like, six days on, four weeks off."

The cabbie whistles. "That's all right, 'ey? Work hard for six days then take it easy for a month. That's a helluva life."

"Yeah, I guess."

There might've been a time that that kind of lifestyle would've appealed to Edward. But he's too self-aware now, to covet that kind of leisure time. He knows he couldn't be trusted with it.

Edward wipes his damp face on the shoulder of his t-shirt. He needs to find work, and soon. He's not sure how Bella would take the suggestion that she stop work so she concentrate on her studies, but he wants it to be an option for her. He wants—needs—to contribute to his family. Financially, and in other ways, too—with his time, his effort, his support.

Leaning his head back on the worn fabric of the backseat, Edward lets his eyes drift closed. He listens to the rhythmic slide of the windscreen wipers, the occasional splash as the taxi's wheels find a puddle, as he starts to make a mental list of the kinds of work he could apply for.

Hospitality's out, obviously. Unless he can find a job washing dishes in a café—anywhere without a licence would be all right. He does have his white card, so any kind of construction work's a possibility. And that's probably his preference, for now, something physically demanding. But really, he's not going to be choosey. If he has to mow lawns or scan groceries, he'll do it.

His mind starts to drift and he's on the edge of sleep when the taxi starts to slow.

"What number was it, bro? Twenty-seven?"

"Twenty-nine."

The car comes to a stop and Edward feels as if his stomach is trying to claw its way up his throat as he slips his wallet from his pocket.

"Thanks, mate." He hands the driver the cash. "Don't worry about the change."

"Cheers, bro. Good luck, 'ey?"

"Yeah, thanks. You, too."

Edward wraps the handle of his duffle bag around his fingers and pushes the car door open with his free hand. The kerb has become a river bank; water rushes, burbling, towards the storm water drain. He steps out into the rain, his hips and lower back aching from so much time sitting on his arse. His t-shirt is soaked before he's even slammed the door of the taxi shut.

In his sodden clothes, with water dripping from his eyebrows, Edward watches the cab until its tail lights disappear around the next corner. Licking the rain from his top lip, he turns towards Garrett and Katie's place.

The concrete path running down the side of the property is slick with fallen frangipani flowers; their sweet perfume is cloying, almost sickly. The lights are on in the main house, and though Edward wants to make sure he thanks Garrett and Katie for the way they've looked after Bella and the girls, but he has no intention of knocking on his brother-in-law's door tonight.

The wet grass tickles his bare ankles as he ducks across the lawn towards the granny flat. He flinches as a sensor light snaps on, flooding the yard with light. Edward swallows hard as a rectangle of light stretches across the doorway to frame the silhouette of the woman standing behind the screen door.

He catches a glimpse of Bella as she throws the screen door open, and then she's crashing into him, her arms around his neck, her body against his. His heart thrashes around in his chest, like it's trying to beat its way into hers. Edward drops his bag on the wet grass and wraps his arms around her waist. He pulls her close and buries his face against her neck.

He means to tell her he loves her, that he's so happy to be home. He means to fall to his knees and promise her he's changed. All he manages is a choked sob that gets lost in the chaos that is Bella's hair.

It's everywhere, sticking to Edward's face and arms, wrapping around Bella's throat. When he pulls back to kiss her, there are strands stuck to her cheeks and her lips. He swipes them away, and then, hands cupped around her face, he hesitates.

"Bel…"

Hair wild, cheeks flushed, her face dripping wet, there's a desperation in Bella's eyes that Edward recognises. It's the same need that yanks him towards her like a bungee rope snapping a jumper back from the lowest point of his fall.

With a groan, he lowers his mouth to Bella's. Their kiss is hungry and hard, almost bruising. He can feel the rain slapping at his face and dripping down his back, but he doesn't care—it's another reminder that he's present, here, in his wife's arms, home.

Bella pulls away and lets out a breath that's half gasp, half giggle.

He grins as he looks down at her. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself."

They stand in place for a moment, smiling like fools, until a gust of wind sweeps across the yard, blowing the rain into needle sharp points.

"Come on in." Bella tugs on his forearm; her fingers slip on his skin. "You're drenched."

Edward picks up his stuff and follows her inside. He closes the door behind him and pauses, the weight of his bag tugging at his shoulder socket. His nervousness comes rushing back as he watches Bella grab up some towels from the piles of laundry on the dining room table. She was clearly in the process of folding it when she heard him arrive.

Bella tosses a towel at him. He catches it in his free hand, then looks from its pink and purple waves to his bag.

"Where should I…?" He lifts the bag a few inches higher to show it to Bella, feeling much like he did on his first day of Kindergarten. He doesn't know the rules and routines here. "It's all grassy and wet."

Bella looks up from towelling her hair dry. "Just dump it there," she says. "It's fine."

He complies, then toes off his saturated Volleys. He pushes them towards the door with his foot, before he bends down to dry off his feet and legs.

When he straightens up, Bella has removed her T-shirt and is hunting through the basket of laundry. His eyes follow the line of her bikini tan, over her collarbone towards her breasts, mostly hidden by her white, lacy bra. He swallows hard. He looks away and back, away and back again. She smiles and shakes her head, as though she can feel his eyes on her.

"You're allowed to look." Her voice is soft and her cheeks are pink. "If you want to."

"I…" Edward pulls his wet T-shirt over his head to save himself from having to try to figure out the right thing to say. He wants to look; he wants to do more than look. But he wants her to earn her heart back before he asks for her body.

He rubs the towel across his chest and shoulders. It's his turn to feel the weight of Bella's gaze. He feels the tips of his ears burn.

He wraps the towel around his waist and steps out of his shorts, as if he were back in P.E. class.

"Give me those." Bella points at his wet clothes. "I'll chuck them in the machine."

When she disappears, still only clad in her bra and jeans, Edward takes the chance to look around the little flat she's been living in all these months.

It's a tiny space, cluttered but clean. The fridge is covered with colourful drawings and notes bearing the emblem of Rosie's school. On the coffee table, a stack of textbooks and papers sits beside Bella's laptop—it clearly doubles as her study desk. Beneath the television, there are several stiff fabric drawers that look to be jammed full of the girls' toys and books.

"Sorry about the mess," Bella says. She waves a hand towards the clothes on the dining table. "I meant to fold them away but my assignment took longer than I expected it to."

"That's…" Edward scratches the back of his neck as he looks at his bare feet. He was about to tell her that it's okay, that he doesn't mind, but he doesn't want her to take it the wrong way again. "I can help you do it. If you want?"

The look Bella gives him suggests this response isn't much better. "It can wait."

"Okay." The hunger and desperation he felt outside is still there, a tug low in his belly, but it's superseded for the moment by the awkwardness he feels. He's only step inside the door, but he's found himself standing in the middle of the life Bella has made for herself in his absence.

He looks around a little wildly, looking for something familiar, some evidence that he belongs here.

"You okay?" There's worry or a wound in Bella's voice, and his gaze snaps back to her. Her arms are wrapped around her waist. They're sun-burnished, several shades darker than the soft-looking skin of her belly.

"Yeah. I… " His hand finds the back of his neck again and he kneads the tight muscles there. _Use your words_, he reminds himself.

"I'm feeling… a little overwhelmed," he says. "It's been a long time."

Bella's smile is gentle. "I know what you mean." She snags a singlet top from the pile of laundry and pulls it over her head. "Why don't you have a shower, get some dry clothes on? I'll put the kettle on."

Grateful that she's making these decisions for him, he complies.

The hot shower eases Edward's sore muscles, and gives him a chance to catch his breath. He's strangely pleased to see Bella still buys the same brand of shampoo. There's something comforting in the familiar floral scent as he scrubs it into his scalp.

When he's finished, he finds Bella curled up on the couch, two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table.

She pats the seat beside her, but he hesitates, glancing past her towards the closed bedroom doors. Two brightly coloured wooden letters adorn one of the doors: a yellow _R_ and a green _A_.

"In the morning," Bella says. Her voice is soft with understanding. "You know what Rosie's like if she gets disturbed from a deep sleep."

Edward smiles. He _does_ remember. He spent many a night pacing the floor, her little head on his shoulder, her screams in his ears, as he tried to settle her back to sleep.

"Did you tell them?" He takes the seat beside Bella and reaches for the closest cup of tea. He doesn't need to ask which mug is his—they take it the same way.

"I didn't." Bella takes a sip of tea. "I thought it would be a pretty awesome surprise for them to wake up and find you here."

He hopes that's true. A small part of him worries that, despite their enthusiasm over the phone, and in all their letters and cards and drawings, they'll be hesitant to accept him coming home.

Bella snickers. "And as if they would've gone to bed tonight if I'd told them. They'd both be bouncing off the walls, and there's no chance I'd be able to prise them off you to get them to go to sleep. And then we'd have two overtired little gremlins on our hands for the next few days."

"True."

Silence settles around them as they sip their tea. The pile of textbooks on the table in front of them have Post-It notes and pieces of paper covered with Bella's handwriting sticking out from between the pages. Edward scans the titles: _Caring for Older People in Australia, Mental Health Care: An Introduction for Professionals, Mental Health: A Person-Centred Approach_.

Edward shifts in his seat and looks up at the framed photographs displayed on top of the television cabinet. He'd sent them to Bella just before he left for The Buttery, and he's glad to see they all arrived in tact. All the most precious moments of his life are up there.

Bella's Year 12 Formal. Their wedding photo. Bella, exhausted but smiling, as she cradles a newborn Rose. Rose holding baby Alice, Bella's hands hovering in the edges of the shot. There's one of him, laughter in his eyes as he balances Alice on one hip and Rose on the other.

On the end, there's a photo of Bella and her grandmother that he's never seen before. He remembers the day—Gran's 85th birthday, her last birthday—but he can't remember seeing this picture. Neither woman is looking at the camera. Gran is looking at Bella, and though she's not smiling, her pride and affection is obvious. Bella, though, is looking past the photographer, just the tiniest of smiles lifting the corners of her mouth.

"Who took that? The picture of you and Gran? I've never seen it before."

"What– oh, Garrett did. Katie was sorting through all their photo files a little while ago and she found it. It's a good one, huh? "

He nods. "I remember that cardigan."

"I should hope so," Bella snickers, "you took it off me enough times."

Edward grins, memories made in the backseat of his old VK Commodore and the king single in his bedroom at his parents' place flickering through his mind. "Do you still have it?"

"Yeah. I've got a few of the jumpers and cardigans Gran made me in a box… "

Edward watches her expression shift, creases appearing between her eyebrows as her smile fades. "They must be at your folks' place, I guess."

With all the rest of their things. All the stuff that Edward didn't have sent down to Bella or take with him to The Buttery, he'd boxed up and crammed into his parents' garage.

"Bella, I– "

"We don't have to do this tonight, okay?"

He licks his lips. All those months apart and she's still so good at reading him. He swallows the last lukewarm mouthful of tea and sets his mug down. He blows out a breath.

"Just. I– I'm so s– "

She squeezes his knee. "I'm serious. Not tonight."

He rubs a hand over his face. The weight of everything he wants to say, needs to say, presses down on him.

Bella sighs. She pulls her hand away from his knee and tucks it under her thigh.

"Look… I'm not going to stop you from talking, Edward. If you want me to, I'll sit up with you all night. If you need to get it off your chest right now, then go for it. I'm listening. But I just… I want you to know… " She runs a hand through her almost-dry hair, pushing it away from her face. "We've got time. We've got a whole lot of time to sort through the mess we've made of the last few years. I'm not going anywhere."

_We've made?_

Edward leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Bella's right, and he knows it. It's not the time. They're both tired, strung out from the anticipation of this moment. If they try to have this conversation right now, it's not going to go well.

Without looking up, he nods. "Yeah," he says. "Okay. Later. We'll like, schedule it in."

He means it to be a joke, something to diffuse the tension that stretches between them, but Bella says, "I think that's a good idea."

"Huh?"

She reaches over and tugs on his forearm until he sits up straight and looks at her.

"I think, if we plan times to talk, we can be… prepared, I guess. You know, so we can think about the things we need to say, the questions we want to ask… And we can find times when the girls are at school and preschool, times when we can sit down, focus on each other, and just… " She shakes her head. "Am I making any sense?"

Edward reaches for her hand. Her engagement ring scratches him as he weaves his fingers into the spaces between hers.

"Yeah," he says. "You're making sense. Good sense."

He tugs her hand, gently, asking not demanding. She slides closer, fitting herself under his arm.

"I love you," he says. He kisses her temple. "I should've said that an hour ago."

"I love you, too." She stretches up and kisses his cheek. "And so should've I." She turns her face away as a yawn overtakes her. "Sorry."

"Nah, don't be. It's pretty late."

"Mmm." She looks up at the clock on the DVD player. It's almost midnight. "Crap. It _is_ late."

She nudges him, a gentle elbow to the ribs. "Bedtime, mate."

"Yeah." Edward chews his lip; he doesn't want to ask the question in his mind.

"Come on," Bella pats his thigh and gets to her feet. When he doesn't move, she jerks her head towards the closed bedroom door. "Bed's in there."

"I can sleep out– "

"Not a chance." Hands on her hips, she looks down on him. "I need to brush my teeth and use the loo. You better not be sitting here when I'm finished."

Edward gets to his feet as Bella slips into the bathroom. He hears the soft thud as the door closes.

He fumbles for the lightswitch and hesitates in the doorway of the bedroom, feeling almost as nervous as he was the first time Bella snuck him into her room. Back then, it was anticipation mixed with the fear of getting busted. Tonight, he's similarly conflicted—simultaneously elated and terrified. He's amazed that Bella is willing to share her bed, to fall asleep beside him tonight. The fear he's feeling… Well, he expects it will hang around for a while: his fear of his own capacity to screw things up.

He looks at the queen-sized ensemble, frowning. _That's not our bed._ He scoffs at himself. Of course it isn't. Their bed is in his parents' garage, the frame in pieces, the mattress wrapped in plastic and shoved against a wall.

Edward steps out of his shorts, pulls back the intricately-embroidered, sea blue covers, and climbs onto the bed. The mattress wobbles under his weight. He leans against the wall, a pillow shoved behind his back, trying to calm himself down. The air in here is still, heavy with the scents of Bella's perfume and shampoo. He's overwhelmed again.

"You okay?" Bella has swapped her jeans for a pair of cotton shorts. She takes out her earrings and sets them on the dresser, before switching on the fan standing at the end of the bed.

"Fine," Edward says, watching the fan blades pick up speed. "Are you hot?"

"Nah. I can't sleep without the noise. Switch the lamp on for me?"

He does.

Bella flips off the overhead light and climbs into bed beside him, where she arranges her pillows into an inverted V-shape. It makes Edward smile, knowing one, if not both, of those pillows will be on the floor when she wakes up tomorrow morning. He'd offered a number of times to buy her one of those boomerang-shaped pillows, but she wouldn't hear of it.

Stealing glances at each other, the both lie back against their pillows and pull the covers up to their armpits. After a moment, Bella rolls onto her side and says, "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"This is a bit weird, I know."

"Not weird," Edward says. "Well, a little bit." He searches her eyes for any sign of her discomfort with the situation. He sees none.

"It's good to be home." That's a woefully inadequate way of putting it.

"It's good to have you home."

Edward reaches back to switch off the lamp. He regrets it immediately as Bella's face dissolves into the dark.

But then her hand finds his and his eyes adjust and it all becomes real. He's home.

Edward doesn't expect sleep to come easily tonight, but now that he's flat on his back, the travel and stress catch up with him. His eyes are growing heavy when he hears Bella's whispered, "I love you so much." He means to tell her he feels the same way, but he's too far gone—he drifts off to sleep before he can form the words.

* * *

><p>The house is silent when Edward wakes, the bedroom blue-toned in the predawn light. The rain has stopped and the air smells fresh and sweet, like the whole world has been washed clean in preparation for this morning.<p>

Bella's arm is thrown across his chest, anchoring him to this new reality. Behind her, the curtain flutters in the breeze. She must've gotten up in the middle of the night and opened the window. That she's curled back into his side makes his heart thump a little faster.

He closes his eyes again, thinking of catching a few more minutes sleep, but he's not tired.

So he lies still, and as he waits for his family to wake, he watches the sun creep across Bella's body, turning her skin and hair to gold. She's so beautiful.

About half an hour later, he hears the slap of little footsteps and his breath catches. A mop of brown curls appears at the end of the bed. Alice stops, her eyes widening as she takes him in. She's grown up so much. She was still a toddler, really, the last time she curled up on his lap to watch _Avengers Assemble_. Her face is narrower, more mature, and she has to be at least a head taller.

"Daddy." It's just a whisper.

Before he can speak, she spins on her heel and darts out of the room. Is she frightened? Did she not recognise him? His chest constricts; a lump forms in his throat.

"Rosie! Daddy's home. Daddy's home! Wake up. Daddy's home!"

It's the jubilation in her voice that has the tears spilling down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow. Rosie squeals in the other room, and then both girls burst back into the room, tugging at each other in their haste to get through the door.

Bella chuckles sleepily, pulling her hand from his as Alice reaches the bed. Alice clambers up onto the mattress, Rose right behind her. Edward cops a knee to the thigh and an elbow to the stomach and someone's hand presses too hard against his ribs, but he doesn't care. Not with his girls giggling and wriggling and trying to burrow their way under the blankets.

"Daddy!"

"Daddy!"

They're talking over the top of each other, trying to fill him in on almost a year's worth of happenings.

"Miss Mallory said I had the neatest colouring–"

"And then Wasp stopped Iron-Man and Black Panther from fighting–"

"We went to the park and I went down the biggest slide–"

"We found a starfish in the rock pool and it was _this_ big and–"

Edward lets the talk and laughter wash over him, his heart buoyant. The challenges and stresses of life after rehab will catch up with him soon enough, he knows. And overcoming them will be hard work. But for now, he focuses on this moment, basking in the sunshine of his daughter's smiles, and in the warmth of Bella's hand on his shoulder. It's so good to be home.

* * *

><p><em>Almost done. Thanks for reading, lovely people.<em>


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